


I Keep Coming Home

by PhantomEngineer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 70,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11841921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomEngineer/pseuds/PhantomEngineer
Summary: "The path, winding up through the woodland from the village by the lake, was not the easiest route up the hill. The man pausing both for breath and also to admire the dramatic scenery spread out before him acknowledged to himself that a significant reason for choosing the winding woodland path was not through practicality but rather through sentimentality. With an almost wry grin that no one was there to see, he accepted that his life thus far could be summed up as choosing the most difficult option whenever there was a choice to be made. By this point he knew himself too well and doubted it was a characteristic he would ever be able to change. Sometimes it worked out well, but often there was a certain amount of suffering involved."The Harry Potter series was written for children, based on real events. Everyone heals differently. A man takes the long road home, haunted by his past. Sometimes running away is the right this to do and sometimes you have to turn around and face it.Warnings for mentions of not particularly graphic: rape, torture, self-harm, death, abuse, extremism, paedophilia, bestiality, cannibalism, necrophilia, incest, etc. Dark but I like to think ultimately optimistic.





	1. August 2017 (1)

The sun bathed the whole landscape in gold, soft and warm. It glinted off the lake, far below the rolling hills. The British weather came in for a lot of criticism and he definitely had complained about it at great length, but nothing could ever change the fact that British summers could be beautiful. It was neither too hot nor too cold, with a breeze gently spreading the scents of freshly cut grass and flowers through the trees, rustling the leaves in a loving caress. 

The path, winding up through the woodland from the village by the lake, was not the easiest route up the hill. The man pausing both for breath and also to admire the dramatic scenery spread out before him acknowledged to himself that a significant reason for choosing the winding woodland path was not through practicality but rather through sentimentality. With an almost wry grin that no one was there to see, he accepted that his life thus far could be summed up as choosing the most difficult option whenever there was a choice to be made. By this point he knew himself too well and doubted it was a characteristic he would ever be able to change. Sometimes it worked out well, but often there was a certain amount of suffering involved.

He brushed back his dark hair, musing that it was a little long and he should probably cut it at some point. He rubbed the large scar on his neck, massaging it gently. It still tended to itch occasionally, and was stiff a lot of the time. It was, however, a minor irritation compared to what it had once been, and for that he was eternally grateful. He didn’t like the way it looked, the way it spread from his jaw to down below his collar bone, not a clear wound but a tangled mess. Even though it had faded, it was still visible enough that he drew the occasional stare, but by now he had made his peace with the mark that covered the right of his neck, that even his hand could not hide.

Despite the scar, he wore a plain green T-shirt with a normal, open neck. Too much of his life had been spent hiding in fear. He was not ashamed of the scar, it was a part of him and he had accepted it. He had accepted the startled looks, the curiosity. He wasn’t hiding anymore. Any more clothing would have made the hike up the hill an unpleasantly hot affair, but the T-shirt was just right for the weather and the walk. His jeans were old and a little frayed at the hem, but comfortable. His trainers were nothing glamorous, practical shoes he could walk in with no trouble. The trudge along the path had resulted in some mud, which didn’t bother him. Nature and the beauty that came with it included mud. To sanitise the dramatic glory of the woods would lose something of the romance for him. The world was dirty, and there was nothing wrong with that. Beautiful fields often smelt of sheep, cows and manure. Flies congregated on corpses and shit in equal measures. Life had taught him that idealism was a luxury, that true beauty and inner peace came from the acceptance of the good and the bad.

He felt thirty-seven. It was a strange sensation. Too much of his life, he’d spent feeling too old for his actual age or too young. Torn between having to take responsibilities on at a young age, to face issues and problems far beyond the ones he should and the odd realisation that he’d never truly grown up, never matured into an adult in the way that normal people got a chance to. But now, after everything, here on the path he knew that he finally felt free. He finally felt at peace. He felt like himself, like he’d finally discovered who he was. And he was thirty-seven.

With a contented sigh, he swung his rucksack back onto his back. On the one hand, he knew he was being ridiculous in having packed so much into it knowing that he would be climbing up the steep hill through the gorgeous scenery. On the other, he knew that he had packed very little to bring with him, that a larger bag and an alternative route would have been far wiser. But no matter how much he may have tried or pretended to be otherwise, he was more sentimental that he let on, especially now. He had dreamt and fantasised about this walk up this hill for far too long to consider any alternative. 

The last year in particular had taken its toll on him. He’d survived, but it had taken more of him than he had expected. What lay up the hill, at the end of the woodland path, amongst the sheer peaks had kept him going. It had helped him hold everything together when he thought he might fall apart, disintegrate to nothing. It had made him plan for this, his return. He had dreamt of his welcome for so long now, he almost couldn’t bear it. The long hike up both helped him prepare himself, helped him accustom himself to this place once more. It brought him the calmness of nostalgia, the strange choking sadness of the past. It also built the tension, coiling deep in the pit of his stomach, drawing out the stress. Drawing out the moments until he arrived at his final destination. It was raising the drama of the act, from the simplicity it could have been to something with a flair. At this stage in his life, he could admit to himself, even if he were reluctant to do so to others, that he was something of a drama queen. This was the correct way, to his mind. It was the truest acknowledgment of himself, of the significance this hike and his final destination held to him.

He tried, amongst the hawthorn bushes either side of the path, to focus on the positive. The welcome that awaited him, that he prayed with every fibre of his being to all manner of deities he could never believe it, would be a warm one. He tried to not let the regrets for the past intrude on his thoughts, to let the longing show him alternative paths in his life he could have taken. He tried to forgive himself, as he often did, for the mistakes he felt he had made. Even more than that, he hoped that one day he could put his demons to rest and receive forgiveness from the only person he truly needed to hear it from. He knew all the excuses, the ones he had used to reassure others over the years when they too felt they had transgressed into the unforgivable, that he had been young. He had been lost. The memories never left him, or that slight sense of shame. A part of him always felt that it was beyond forgiveness, that to be forgiven would destroy the last remaining elements of him and shatter his very soul. In some perverse way, it was the guilt that kept him going, that drove him on. It was the feelings of penance that made him act, that had him walking up the hill. Only common sense prevented him from removing his shoes and doing it barefoot, which seemed more fitting for this pilgrimage through the best and the worst of himself, hidden deep amongst the soft birdsong.

Maybe, he thought idly, maybe now he’d have a chance to learn the names of the birds that sung around him, identify their different plumage. He tried to think of the future, but it always seemed like a gaping blank. Absolution was the only future he both hoped and dreaded, the only thing that lingered out of reach that he dared not grasp for. His mind caught in the eternal conflict between the ecstasy of being so close to his destination and the abject horror of taking the final steps, he stepped out of the woods, the path having led him out of them. To his left, the scenery fell away, sweeping downwards towards the glittering lake. To his right, the hill continued up in gentle rolls. He continued, one foot ahead of the other, as he had done all his life. He drank in the beauty of the landscape, but dared not linger too long incase his courage failed him and the journey onwards became harder still.

Breathing in the calm of the fresh air, full of so many competing scents ranging from the mild dampness of the leaves on the ground to the hint of sheep, he regarded the house before him. The woodland path had left him not far from the house’s spacious garden, the old wooden gate of which he softly opened, noting the way it creaked as he let himself into the garden. The garden spread out before him, lawns interspersed with vegetable gardens and beds of all manner of wild flowers. It smelt heavenly, the richness of the soil surrounding his senses. The gentle clucking of chickens drifted lazily from the modest chicken coop. His footsteps crunched on the gravel as he walked along the garden path, choosing the path that wound around the house towards the front door. It was a reasonably sized house, built of the traditional rough stones left bare. The front door was neatly white-washed, though he hesitated briefly to look down the drive that led up to it, the route he had chosen not to take, the direct route out in the open. Breathing in once again, savouring the unmistakable cleanness of the countryside air, he faced the door, set his backpack on the doorstep beside him and rang the doorbell.

As he waited, he held his emotions in check. He dreaded and yearned for the opening of the door and all possible outcomes. He dreaded and yearned for the unspoken forgiveness of a warm welcome. He dreaded and yearned for anger and recriminations for the past. He dreaded and yearned for everything beyond the door as it opened abruptly and before his eyes stood a vision he had dreamed of, a vision whose pictures he had spent more time than he would ever admit pouring over. The woman before him was older than when he had last seen her with his own eyes, though she would undoubtably say the same for him. It did nothing to detract from her simple beauty. Her hair was still red, longer now and braided in a messy braid. Her clothing was as normal and rustic as her surroundings, plain jeans and a neatly fitted t-shirt, both liberally dusted with flour.

She gasped, her face awash with an agonised delight, and she flung her arms around him. He felt her warm embrace, like a pair of old pyjamas so comfortable he could spend the rest of his life in them, the gentle softness of her form replacing the memory of the harsh gauntness of grief that she’d been when he last held her wrapped tightly in his arms in their twenties. He inhaled the sweet smell of cinnamon that radiated from her, the welcoming aroma of baking. She drew back, a look of broken affection on her fair, freckled face as they gazed at each other. Gently, without a word, she drew him into the house.

He dumped his rucksack in the corner of the porch, amongst a variety of gardening tools and kicked off his shoes, bending to place them on the shoe rack, stuffing them along with the selection of hiking boots, wellies and trainers. Throughout it all, he did not let go of her hand, gently pulling him inwards. The wallpaper of the hallway was old and faded, a faint trace of a pattern remaining hidden amongst the dull cream. The hall itself was sparse but spacious, nothing littering the dark green carpet. She led him through the plain white door adorned with rabbit pictures to the kitchen. It was old, but serviceable with a rustic simplicity. The tiles beneath his feet were a dull black and cool even through his socks. 

“Severus,” she said almost breathlessly as she entered the kitchen with him in tow, “Severus, Harry’s home,”


	2. August 2017 (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I don’t intend to cover anything explicitly, there will be mentions, discussions and implications of a number of topics throughout this story that people may find uncomfortable. This includes: nuclear war, earthquakes, rape, torture, psychological trauma, eating disorders, disability, injuries, self-harm, death (a lot of death), abusive relationships and neo-nazis. Maybe more. In this and the next chapter, some of these points are casually referred to in conversation.

Harry was vaguely aware of Ginny saying, “Luna’s out sketching,” but her voice seemed to be far away as his eyes fell on the figure standing by the ugly yet practical kitchen cabinets. Every detail seemed almost timeless, familiar but shifted away from the memories he had once had. Plain grey slippers made perfect sense given the chill of the tiled floor, and ordinary nondescript black trousers. Harry smiled slightly in amusement at the fact that he was wearing a T-shirt bearing the Slytherin crest, assuming it to have been a gift. The man himself was slender as he always had been, though without the darkness or the rustling bats that had once cloaked him he seemed smaller and more vulnerable. Human. His hair was still jet black, falling to his jawline, his skin still the same pale brown. His face seemed almost unchanged from when Harry had first laid eyes on him twenty-six years ago, the nose still proud, the dark eyes still unfocused and unseeing. 

A faint smile played across Severus’s lips, as Harry said softly, “I’m home, Severus,” before walking the few feet across the room to take his hands. They were almost exactly as Harry remembered them, strong with dextrous fingers. He raised them to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to them. Severus copied him, likewise drawing their joined hands to his own lips and touching a brief kiss to both of Harry’s hands.

“If you’d told us, I’d have come picked you up in the car,” Ginny pointed out wryly, not really expecting his full attention anymore. Severus laughed slightly at that, and Harry had to smile. He felt his eyes swim slightly with tears and bit his lip in an effort to control the emotions within him.

“I know,” he told her, his gaze not leaving Severus, “I wanted to walk up,”

“You always do,” Severus spoke quietly, his voice as rich as Harry remembered from his childhood and dreams, in person now rather than the crackled video call that depended so much on the quality of connection and the insufficient speakers, “How long are you staying for?”

Harry hesitated, “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I left my cases with Petunia and Vernon, and I sent a couple of boxes by ship. Right now I only have my rucksack with me,”

“You know you’re welcome here as long as you want to stay,” Ginny told him, carefully folding some grated courgette into her large bowl of batter, “You always are,” Harry realised he had no doubt interrupted them in the middle of baking.

Harry swallowed, releasing Severus’s hands. Severus let them go without protest, leaning against the counter with a faintly sorrowful expression filtering across his usually expressionless face. Harry marshalled his emotions, fighting between saying what he truly felt and what he felt able to, ultimately settling for saying weakly, “I’d like to stay a while. Sometimes I think, maybe even forever,”

His admission was greeted with silence, Ginny pausing in her mixing though Harry chose not to meet her eyes. He kept his vision focused on Severus’s hands.

“If that’s what you want,” Severus told him softly, his hands unmoving, which Harry huffed impotently at.

“Tea?” Ginny asked simply, breaking through any awkwardness or discomfort skilfully, to which Harry nodded gratefully.

“I’ll make it, I don’t want to interrupt your baking too much,” he answered, hopeful that something productive and useful, even something as basic as making them all tea, would sooth his restlessness to an extent. He could feel all the varied feelings, so much more clear than they had been for years. The walk up the hill had been important, but now he was standing in their kitchen he felt more emotions than he cared to.

“Sit down,” Severus commanded him, and Harry obeyed almost instinctively. The commanding tone was one he had not heard for decades, but still the promise of power resonated through his very being despite knowing that there was none. He took a seat at the kitchen table, on a cushioned wooden chair. He watched, almost enchanted, as Severus carefully put the kettle on. Of all of them, Harry knew it was Severus who made the best pot of tea. It was, undoubtedly, a consequence of the extraordinary talent he had had with potions, that allowed him to judge the amounts and brewing time so well. The familiarity with the kitchen layout meant that even sightless he could still smoothly find everything. The kitchen felt lighter than it had the first time Harry had sat in it, all those years ago when he thought none of them would ever smile again. The whole house had been awash with dark despair then, which had gradually lifted. A grieving sorrow remained, permeating every inch of the landscape, but there was an easy calm, a peaceful contentment that Harry was glad to let wash over him.

“Hermione and Draco will be here in time for lunch,” Ginny spoke, spooning batter into the fairy cake tray with a practised ease, “We didn’t know when you’d be arriving. You know they would have been quite happy to have picked you up along the way, if you’d wanted that. And Draco says if you want them to fetch your case or something on their way up it’ll be no problem, they’d been planning on calling in on Petunia and Vernon on the way up or down so if it saves a trip they’ll do it today,”

Harry gratefully took the mug of tea that Severus placed on the table in front of him, the tea just the shade he liked it. He was half amused half horrified to note that the mug he’d been handed happened to have an illustration of a doe, accompanied by the words ‘After all this time’ and ‘Always’. Guiltily, playing slightly with the mug he replied, “That would be nice, thanks, if it’s not too much trouble,” as Severus took a seat besides him, placing a mug emblazoned with Coniston clearly intended for Ginny on the table along with his own, which was bedecked with green lilies.

The trays of fairy cakes were placed briskly in the oven, and Ginny took a seat by her mug of tea. She typed quickly away at her phone, before setting it down.

“Done,” she informed him with a smile, which Harry returned bashfully.

“I’m sorry for not being in contact better,” he apologised, but Ginny brushed it off with a casual shrug.

“I guess your phone doesn’t work here, does it?” she asked him.

“No. I cancelled my contract when I left Japan anyway, but I’m going to have to get a new one at some point. I’m entirely reliant on wifi for the time being,” he responded, blowing on his tea.

“The wifi password is still ‘wormwood’, all lowercase,” Severus informed him quietly, taking a sip of his own tea, which made Harry smile. The silence which fell was a comfortable one, for all that it was full of words unspoken. Words that should have been said years ago, words that lingered on the tips of tongued, choked back, words that needed saying yet without a word they were already accepted, understood and acknowledged. They drank their tea, and Harry appreciated the way in which Severus could still brew him the perfect cup, just the right strength with the just right amount of milk, no matter the lengthy gap of time. Maybe, he considered, it wasn’t so much that Severus brewed tea so perfectly for him but that he had grown accustomed to the deep comfort associated with his tea to the point that even tea he made for himself seemed substandard.

As they drank their tea, Ginny kept an eye on her fairy cakes in the oven, her quick glances speaking of a casual confidence in her baking skills. Into the peaceful lull, where Harry began to allow his thoughts to relax and unravel, he heard the sound of a door opening and then closing. Ginny swallowed audibly, and Severus called out in a firm but confident voice that undoubtably carried throughout the house, “Harry’s home,”

There was no response. Without a word, the door to the kitchen was pushed open and in slipped Luna, keeping herself pressed firmly against the wall. She wore a blue summer dress covered in yellow fish, slipping off her shoulders and showing the frail form beneath. Her skin was no longer the palid translucence that it had been, the days in the sun having given her a hint of colour. Her dirty blonde hair was braided in a messy braid, strands of hair straggling around her face. She was barefoot, not seeming to care about the coolness of the tiled floor. She regarded the three of them with wide eyes, and Harry was careful to remain seated, his face neutral.

“I got some duck eggs,” she said faintly, holding out the carton she was grasping in her hand, still not moving from the wall, her eyes fixed on Harry.

“Thank you,” Ginny said softly, standing to go to her. She took the proffered carton before turning to consider the two men at the table, “Severus, why don’t you show Harry the garden and the living room while we lay the table. He hasn’t seen it in a while, it’s probably changed,” she suggested.

Harry nodded in understanding, standing slowly. Luna edged away from the doorway, a look of anguished guilt on her face as she hovered awkwardly by the sink. Carefully, with slow steady movements, Harry left the kitchen. Severus followed him out a few moments later, but not before Harry caught a glance through the doorway of him receiving a hug so brief it could barely be called a hug from Luna as Ginny shooed him away. He lent against the wall of the hallway, resting his head back and sighing.

“Let me give you the tour,” Severus intoned sardonically, letting his fingertips rest gently on the wall. He walked confidently along the hall towards the living room, leaving it up to Harry to follow him. Harry did so, feeling a wave of nostalgia for being led along other corridors in the same fashion, many years before. The difference was that then there had always been bats circling their master. Severus carefully made his way into the living room and strode across the room towards the large french doors, which he opened with a flourish. He stepped cautiously out onto the small patio, gesturing to the garden at large, “As you can see, this is the garden. Allegedly it looks rather nice, and there is some scenery. I wouldn’t know. If you would like to use your vision to regard the living room, I’m certain you will be able to see it far better than me,”

Harry gave the garden a cursory glance, before returning his attention to Severus. The man before him held his interest in a way a garden or mere furniture never could. As always, his face was impassive, utterly unreadable. Harry wondered if he sensed a hint of melancholy in his expression, or if that was just his imagination playing with his mind. Pausing he looked once more out at the garden and asked almost hesitantly, “Do your bats still roost in the eaves?” and Harry was sure there was a hint of sadness in the blank gaze.

“Yes,” Severus replied, “Though they aren’t really my bats anymore. I don’t…” he stopped to take a deep breath to steady his voice in an unusual hint of emotion, “I don’t even think the ones I used to know are still alive. It’s likely their descendants in our eaves,”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, almost inaudibly, knowing that his words would carry.

Severus moved from the french doors, leaving them open to welcome the gentle breeze wafting scents of the hills in. He sat down on the comfortable red sofa with a sigh that seemed to speak of an unspeakable grief. Harry looked at him, the familiar figure at once so unchanged and yet almost unrecognisably so, there on a simple sofa. The room was light, the sun pouring in through the windows to illuminate it with a soft warm embrace. In addition to the sofa, there were two matching red armchairs either side of it, curving around a small coffee table on which there lay a sketch book Harry knew belonged to Luna. A few of her pictures were stuck on the cream wall, the ones that weren’t of the landscape around but from old memories. Hogwarts looming in the mist, the Burrow in all it’s chaotic glory, the shores of the lake covered with corpses. His eyes lingered sorrowfully over a small illustration of Severus, his figure obscured in a cloud of bats, with only his face clear amongst them. Bookshelves, filled with a variety of books on all manner of subjects covered the rest of the walls. Harry could see the _Harry Potter_ series jumping out from their place on the shelves to grab his attention.

“I knew,” Severus said quietly, “I knew what would happen when we removed all the magic from the world. I always knew I would lose my psychic link to my bats, but it was right. Voldemort had to be stopped. The endless wars had to be stopped, and that was the only way. We all paid a price. I cannot say I paid the highest,”

Harry took a seat on the sofa with him, not quite close enough to be touching but near enough that he could with little effort, should he want to. He felt a crushing despair, the stresses of the world weighing down on him, combined with memories of a time when he’d held the future of everyone in the palms of his hands.

“Sometimes,” he said sadly, “I wonder if we really did. We just ended magical wars, but now all I can see is muggle wars and muggle violence. A countdown to armageddon. A threat of nuclear war. Was it always like this, or were we just too busy watching the magical world tear itself apart to see the muggle world doing the same? Is this going to be how it all ends, humanity driving itself to the brink of destruction and plunging over the cliff?” he implored his former teacher for an answer, seeking wisdom, but all Severus could do was shrug. He hadn’t been a teacher in a long time. He no longer needed to have an answer.

“All I could think,” Harry continued slowly, “When I was leaving Japan, was how if it all ends in a nuclear apocalypse then I want my bones to be incinerated with yours,” 

Severus gave no initial response to that, long legs crossed as he leaned back into the sofa. After a moment, he started speaking, his voice sorrowful, almost desperate with a restrained anguished passion, “I can understand the sentiment, though I never thought you would be the one to feel it. I have to believe that everything will get better, otherwise what is the point? What was the point? What did we fight for, for so much of our lives? I have to believe that this is merely a bad moment, that soon, any moment now, everything will get better and there’ll be peace. No more bad news or suffering,”

He stopped, pausing with painful memories before continuing in a low, hesitant voice, “I… When the news of the earthquakes broke last year… I did not like our separation. I couldn’t bear for anything to happen to you,”

Harry looked away, thinking back. He started uncertainly, “I was fine. Ultimately, it was fine. I have weathered far worse, I was in a relatively safe area. I can speak Japanese just fine, that helped,” he sighed heavily at the memories, “And yet, I felt so helpless. The ground never stopped trembling. I stopped noticing it, it became the new normal. It was only once I got to Fukuoka that I realised. It just hit me, this weird shocking sensation of the ground not constantly shuddering. I almost didn’t know what to do, with the still earth. My poor, beautiful Kumamoto…”

Severus raised a hand, hesitantly searching for Harry, and stroking his fingers through his hair when they made contact. Harry shifted closer, resting his head against Severus’s shoulder and allowing himself to be held.

“Without magic, I was helpless,” Harry continued, “At the mercy of chance, the tectonic shifts, whoever brought clean drinking water,” he drew strength from the strange wiry strength that Severus had always exuded as he went on, admitting, “It brought it all back. The helplessness, the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. When I wasn’t actively helping out or volunteering, my mind kept drifting back to the war, to everything. To the constant danger, the deaths. The pain and suffering. Everything so out of my control. I kept seeing us on the tower, hearing you and Dumbledore face off…”

Severus’s grip tightened momentarily, a subconscious flinch at the memory. He swallowed, stroking Harry’s arm gently, “I’m sorry,” he said.

“No,” Harry responded firmly, “No, you did the right thing. Thank you, for killing him. Have I ever told you that? Thank you, thank you, thank you so much,”

Severus paused in his caress of Harry’s arm, before snorting gently in mild amusement. It was not a night he liked to remember, and an action that few would greet with gratitude.

They sat in companionable silence, before Harry asked almost reluctantly, not really needing the confirmation, “Luna still has difficulty with me,”

Severus sighed heavily, “She knows it wasn’t you. She’s better than she was. She wants to be alright with you again, she just needs to adjust to having you here, in person,”

“I’m sorry for leaving,” Harry said, meaning it.

“You did what you had to do,” Severus answered calmly, the wisdom of age and the years spent thinking it over resonating clearly, his fingertips moving to comb through Harry’s hair, “We all reacted differently, needed different things. You needed to escape,”

Harry closed his eyes sadly. He knew, that amongst those varying desires they’d all had, Severus’s priority had been the same as always, to care for and protect him. In his absence, he’d done his best for those left behind.

“I couldn’t bear it,” Harry admitted, “Luna… it’s neither of our fault, but I couldn’t bear the way she would flinch, the fear. I couldn’t bear the suffering I would unintentionally inflict on her. I couldn’t face Ginny. She looks too much like Ron, like all her family. I could see all that she’d lost, and so much of it felt like my fault. Hermione too, left with nothing. Her family as good as dead to her, Ron and the Weasleys dead too. And Draco, the only world he’d ever known gone, knowing that magic would have fixed his spine if there’d still been magic, if we hadn’t removed it all. The awful horror of not knowing how much Minerva knew, if there was still something of her left,”

He swallowed, guiltily, “I needed to forget for a time, to see other things. I knew that everything would be alright here, because you were here. I’m still sorry for leaving you to pick up the pieces. You’ve always been too good at that. And I’m still sorry for everything you lost, too. Even knowing beforehand, it must have hurt,”

Severus had no reply to that, staying silent and letting the bird song and gently buzzing of bees drift into the room. Harry let his gaze wander from the greenery outside to the books on the bookshelf. The colourful Harry Potter covers held his attention as they often did. The seven original books had been joined by a copy of _Harry Potter and the Cursed Child_ , which his eyes rested on idly.

“Sybil never did know when to leave well alone,” he grumbled, well aware that he was almost certainly being unfair.

“She didn’t know it would become so big,” Severus said, calm and perfectly rational, “She thought it would be just a book, a simple series for children, a way for her to rewrite reality to provide release and an illusion of a happy ending. She asked our permission, and it’s a blessed relief that she altered all our names, skipped on the details. None of us ever imagined that her choice of therapy would permeate the world to this extent,” Harry could tell by the tone of his voice that Severus had no doubt spent a lot of time thinking about the subject, coming to terms with everything in his own private way.

“I know,” Harry admitted, reluctantly, “I know, but some things I struggle to forgive her for,”

Severus leaned back, unconcerned. Hermione had theorised that it was because Severus had spent so much of his life subsumed in magic that had left him almost ageless. Harry felt a twinge of guilt, the misery and shock of the loss of magic had been agony for him, and he knew it had hit all of them far harder than they ever could have imagined. For Severus, he thought, as he often did, surely the pain must have been so much more. Until magic was removed from the world, Severus had lived a life of pure magic virtually since birth. He had given up the deep connection with his bats, a fact that Harry found painful to even consider, a reality that must have been far worse for Severus.

“It seemed petty, the way she often described you. She went out of her way to describe you as ugly for no good reason,” Harry continued petulantly, but Severus just laughed.

“Harry,” he said with great amusement, “What does that matter? I’m blind, I always have been. I’ve never seen my own face. I’ve never known what I look like, I’ve never cared. What did you think she would write, the man covered in bats? She was aiming for a hint of reality,”

Harry laughed at that, “I know, I know I’m being unfair. But I can’t help it. When people say stuff about me, about the Harry in the books I just brush it off. Nobody’s perfect and Sybil wrote a sensationalist, fictional version. When it’s the rest of you, either the way it was written or the way people then go and talk about it online, then it can hurt. Petunia cried so much with the first book, it took all I had to reassure her that I had always been happy with them and it was just artistic licence. But with you I get angry, really angry. And I know that it’s stupid, but I can’t help myself. I just want everyone to acknowledge you and your fictional counterpart to be as amazing as I think you are,”

Severus shrugged. He had after all known Sybil for far longer than Harry, even if the two of them had never been particularly close, “She was a Seer,” he reasoned simply, “She spun tales based on a reality few of us could see. Sometimes she embellished. Making up a story of some kind was always in character. To write an innocent story of a reality the world doesn’t know about made sense to her, just like leaving worked for you. Just like art helps Luna. We all heal in our own little ways. With such an eager audience, why should she not continue?”

“I haven’t even read Cursed Child yet,” Harry confessed, “It wasn’t really a priority. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to. Dudley suggested we go see it, but what with the jet lag and everything, it wasn’t really practical,”

“We’ve a copy,” Severus informed him, “For if you wish to read it, at your leisure,”

“I think I will,” Harry answered slowly, “I’ve been spoiled anyway, I mostly know what happens. I think. Well, I sort of know some scenes and stuff like that, from tumblr. But it does seem fair to read it at the very least,”


	3. Auguat 2017 (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Draco talks about the plot of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, I'm fairly confident they don't count as spoilers. Aside from anything else, I haven't read it myself.

The car, sensible and blue, drew up to come to a park in the drive. From the driver’s seat Hermione emerged, a burst of energy heading straight for Harry. He enveloped her in a hug, just as eager and heartfelt. He felt the strength of her, radiating outward as it always had done. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the mixed hints of all the elements that combined to make Hermione. They stayed there, just holding each other, a desperate embrace that seemed to stretch back through the decades to the first moment they’d met, crawling all the way back to the present. Almost reluctantly, they broke free of each other’s arms, drawing back to look properly at each other. Her hair, he noted, was in cornrows down past her shoulders now rather than the natural bush it had been when they first met, rather than the chemically straightened style she’d worn for a time when insecurities had gotten the better of her, rather than the shaved head as she grieved when Harry had left, or the bleached blonde bob she’d used to hide her past more recently. She looked well, a healthy glow to her dark skin and her brown eyes were bright with what Harry suspected might be tears. He couldn’t guarantee that his own were entirely dry behind his glasses.

They stood frozen, gazing at each other, Hermione’s hands resting on his shoulders. The years and all the distance seemed to fall away. Just like they had been at Hogwarts, there was hardly a need to exchange words out loud when they could see each others face. Harry didn’t know exactly how long they stayed in place, lost in memories and each other’s presence, but Hermione eventually broke the moment that could otherwise have stretched on for the rest of eternity until they both died and their flesh rotted from their bones still held in the intensity of their connection.

“We brought your case from Petunia and Vernon’s, it’s in the boot,” she informed him, her voice rasping slightly with conflicting emotions that he could see threatened to overwhelm her much as they did him.

“Thanks,” he replied, both grateful for her and guilty at the way she had collected his belongings for him at Ginny’s request. Drawing away from her, he saw that Draco was already out of the car and in his wheelchair, a feat undoubtably accomplished while his focus had been wrapped up in Hermione’s embrace and presence.

“My turn,” Draco demanded with his customarily confident smile, opening his arms to offer himself to Harry. Harry couldn’t help but laugh, heading for him and reaching down to envelop him in a warm hug. Draco in some ways was still entirely unchanged from the first time he’d met him, utterly confident and expecting the world to revolve around him. Now, the seemingly self-centred attitude and way in which he drew in everyone’s attention like a black hole from which no scrap of light could ever possibly escape was delivered with a certain twist of self-deprecation. His hair was still impossibly blonde, cut short and immaculately neat despite his constant tendency towards running his hands through it. His eyes the same faded grey-blue that had seemed so icy when they first met but now seemed like the sorrowful mists over an abandoned harbour to Harry.

As they broke apart, Hermione once again caught his attention. She’d removed his case from the car boot as well as a reasonably sized duffel bag, and Harry hurried to take the suitcase from her.

“I’ll help you,” she reassured him, but he objected.

“I can manage fine, don’t worry,” he told her, taking the case and lifting it alone. It was heavy, but not too heavy. He had managed to get it from Japan to England. He’d hauled it across London, from Heathrow to Dudley’s flat. Even more recently he’d taken it on the train from Dudley’s flat in south east London to Petunia and Vernon’s house in Lancaster. He could carry it from the car into the house, and within the house he could carry it up the stairs to the spare room. Thus ladened he followed the others inside, grateful as Hermione casually exchanging his backpack from where he’d abandoned it in the porch with the duffel bag presumably containing her and Draco’s stuff, following him up the stairs.

The spare room was where he remembered it, sparse in its practicality yet welcoming. He set his suitcase down in the middle of the floor, with Hermione leaning his rucksack against a white wall, underneath a dramatic painting of the Forbidden Forest on fire, clearly another artwork by Luna. Both of them paused, looking at the vivid flames, remembering the heat as it had played across their skin as they watched the real flames flickering, all those years ago. For a moment the silence was awkward, and Harry felt a shattering, shuddering, stabbing pain at the distance and years that had come between their friendship. He felt Ron’s absence between them as a gulfing chasm that might never be bridged.

Hermione sat down on the bed, the sheets a pleasantly floral blue, and sighed. She was wearing Gryffindor socks, Harry noted with a vague amusement, a tiny detail so easily overlooked. Her skinny jeans were tight and high waisted, closely hugging her figure, and she wore a tight white T-shirt with black silhouettes showing an altered version of the March of Progress which ended with Darth Vader. He’d seen it before, on Draco’s tumblr, but he hadn’t realised that the T-shirt (and by extension presumably the breasts contained within it) that Draco had posted had been Hermione’s. He’d rolled his eyes in amusement, which combined with faint embarrassment tended to be his general reaction to Draco’s tumblr, which tended towards Snarry artwork for reasons Harry had never quite fathomed. The exception was to the political posts, which Harry felt were increasing in intensity. He’d often avoided politics, rarely paying attention for years on end, but Draco’s activism had started to reawaken his anger at the world. If he ever needed help forming an opinion he knew that Draco and Hermione combined were a powerful wealth of knowledge and insight. 

“I’ve brought presents for you all,” Harry said, breaking the silence as he knelt to rummage in his rucksack and suitcase to find them all. Hermione watched him, her eyes faintly sad, until he said, “Is it really ok for you to leave your stuff in the porch like that?”

Hermione smiled wryly and stood up, “Probably not, I should put it in our room,”

Once she’d left, the room felt lighter yet emptier and Harry regretted having spoken those words rather than some other ones. Maybe ones that opened up a dialogue to explore what they had been through together, face to face, and come to terms with what lay between them. Or maybe ones that lightened the conversation, general chitchat and an exchange of news, which somehow seemed to be so inadequate with Hermione after all they’d been through together. He had time, he thought resolutely, time ahead of him to find the right words and she did too. They could both be patient, especially now that they were older and wiser.

He withdrew his gifts, both from his case and from his rucksack. He’d already given gifts to both Dudley and his partner, as well as to Petunia and Vernon. Mostly it was just weird flavoured chocolate (green tea kitkats were aways a guaranteed favourite with any of them after all) and strange sweets. He was particularly partial to the sweets that had the exact same shape and texture as grapes as well as tasting very similar to grapes, despite not actually being grapes, and he knew that Draco would be excited to receive a pack of them again. He should unpack, he thought vaguely, but he knew he wouldn’t do it yet. Maybe in a few days. Unpacking was a chore he disliked. It was the symbolism, the implication that he was staying anywhere. In some ways, the simple act of having enough possessions to fill a suitcase, let alone a whole room, filled him with horror. 

He had always liked the feeling of being able to just leave, to run away the moment everything got too much. The moment the people he saw everyday started to become friends. Acquaintances he could cope with, just about, but true familiarity was to be avoided. He’d started to relax in the last few years, staying a total of eight years in Kyushu, five of which had been in Kumamoto. Four of those years in Kumamoto had even been in the same place, the same little flat, seeing the same people, going to the same shops. He’d avoided that for a very long time, and maybe he would have just stayed settling into a new life until his life was literally shaken apart by the earthquake. He’d rethought then, torn in two. Part of him wanted to just rebuild, to put down the roots the earthquake had tried to shake free. He didn’t want to run, be chased away by bad circumstance. And he hadn’t been, he’d stayed to rebuild, to remain a part of the community. But the other part of him, the part of him that wanted to rebuild his old life, the one he’d abandoned with the people he’d left behind, that part had eventually won. He wasn’t giving any guarantees, that he’d stay, that he’d let the roots he’d torn up regrow, but he wanted to at least give them a chance. He could always go back. He’d realised that now, that you could make more than one home, and you could always go home. So he’d come home, to this home, knowing that his other home was still there. Just like when he’d made Hogwarts his home, he’d still had a home with the Dursleys. 

Into this contemplation came a faint knocking on the door, which Hermione had left ajar. It was closer to a scratch than anything else, a clawed flurry against the paint. He looked up, and was surprised to see Luna hovering in the doorway.

“Lunch,” she said and Harry nodded his understanding. He expected her to leave after that, but to his surprise she stayed there, looking awkward but with a strangely determined aura. He stood up slowly, afraid to scare her.

“Hug,” she said, so rushed and unclear that Harry was certain he’d misheard her, until she opened her arms slightly and repeated, voice tight, “Hug, please?”

Cautiously, he walked towards her. She flinched slightly, but stood her ground with the same fierceness she’d once battled Death Eaters with. Harry was torn, a part of him delighted to see that fighting spirit again, a part of him heartbroken to have it directed at him rather than the enemies it had once been saved for.

“Sure?” he asked gently, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want Luna, I do understand,” but she shook her head violently. Slowly, gently, he put his arms around her. She leaned into the hug, returning it. He could feel her heart pounding, the way her whole body was shaking. She felt so tiny, a frail, bony little bird fluttering in his embrace. He made sure to not grip her, to ensure that she could break free at any moment, even though all he really wanted to do was to hold her so desperately close and never let go. She laid her head briefly on his chest, and Harry could feel the subtle threat of tears pricking at his eyes. By the time she raised her head and drew away from him, he was blinking back tears and a portion of his T-shirt was slightly wet, from the tears Luna had quietly shed.

“I do trust you,” she said softly, her voice firm, though there was a hesitant element remaining as if she was still convincing herself of that little detail, “I know it wasn’t you, they just looked like you,”

“I’m still sorry,” Harry said sadly, letting her step away, back into the doorway. He looked at the assortment of gifts resting on his case, wondering what to do with them.

“Leave them for later,” Luna said, “Lunch first, then presents?” Her voice had never really recovered, it was still raspy and hoarse around the edges. Whether it was physical or psychological Harry didn’t know but she clearly preferred to whisper rather than raising her voice to any significant degree.

He nodded, following her softly down the stairs. He noticed, to his amusement, that she was wearing slippers now. Not sensible slippers like Ginny or Severus, but fluffy monster feet, with glittery claws. They suited her, the bizarre combination of a slight woman with ridiculously childish fluffy monster feet. They looked warm, which was maybe not necessary in the current season, but he imagined they were very snug in winter. There was something of the Luna he first met about them, back when they were still students at Hogwarts, back at a time when things had still been alright, briefly.

The kitchen table had now been laid, and both Severus and Draco had already taken their places. Harry sat down besides Draco, opposite Severus, and Luna with a skittish flash of a smile chose the seat as far away from him as possible. Hermione took the seat opposite her, next to Draco and Ginny sat down opposite Draco, in the middle of Luna and Severus. It made sense, Harry thought, Ginny and Draco being in the middle of the table as they were the best options for passing food and holding the conversation in general.

Sure enough, Draco had started talking before Harry had even managed to start to help himself to any of the food. It was, for once, about the food though, which Harry did appreciate.

“Hermione made the humous,” he said handing Harry the plastic tub containing the aforementioned humous. Harry couldn’t help his amused smile as he took it and spooned some onto his plate. Humous wasn’t commonly available in Japan, and he had missed it, but he did find it sweet the way in which Draco had no reservations about pushing Hermione’s achievements on anyone who gave him the chance. A lot had changed since their first meeting, and plenty had stayed the same, in a way that was just growing up.

“How have you been, Harry” Hermione asked, ignoring Draco.

“Alright,” Harry answered, “Somewhat jet lagged, not quite used to Britain yet, but it’s good. Still exciting to get to eat things like humous and real cheese, still keep bowing to people without thinking. I was really grateful Dudley picked me up from Heathrow or I might have gotten hopelessly lost on the tube. I’d almost entirely forgotten what British money looks like, it took me ages to find the right coins to pay in a shop and then I stared in wonder at the change I received so I bet the shop assistant thought I was mad,”

“You seen or read Cursed Child yet?” Draco asked cheerfully, pushing the conversation firmly towards abstract fantasy rather than the practicalities of life, “Seeing as you don’t watch or read so many of the other things I would bore you to death about I may as well go for something you stand a chance of keeping up with,”

Ginny snorted, “Since when did you care about whether anyone was listening or understanding?” she teased him, the barb more affectionate than savage.

“Not yet, I’ll do so eventually,” Harry replied, “All I know is everything you’ve posted on your tumblr, so I suspect I have a pretty good idea of the whole plot,”

Draco nodded sagely, “Yes, I think I must have posted the most Drarry-hinting lines, which was pretty fantastic even if it’s not really my favourite,”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Hermione briefly put her head in her hands. He’d never entirely understood their relationship, but somehow it seemed to work. Draco had once claimed that it worked because he was perfect but Hermione had said it was because they didn’t listen to each other, which was probably more accurate. 

“Though I am most definitely there for all the Albus/Scorpius shipping, talk about adorable. They’re so cute together, I should draw some pics or something soon,” Draco continued casually, to Harry’s slight horror. It wasn’t exactly news, as these things tended to drift across Draco’s blog, but it was different to hear it stated in real life.

“Draco!” he exclaimed, somewhat scandalised, as Ginny sniggered and Severus calmly ate a spoonful of potato salad. Hermione and Luna seemed to be exchanging amused looks, but Harry’s focus was on Draco.

“You ship my non-existent son with your non-existent son?” he asked incredulously, not entirely sure how to take this piece of news. It was both strangely personal and yet also entirely fictional. He should, he thought faintly, be entirely used to it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Draco laughed, giving Harry a mischievously roguish wink, “I’m still whole-heartedly a Snarry shipper. Can’t get enough of that one. Which reminds me, I read the most amazing fanfic the other day-”

“Draco!” Harry once again interjected, half scandalised, half embarrassed laughter. Severus, he could see, was merely rolling his eyes slightly with an accustomed air that implied that Draco talked about his shipping preferences for whatever he was enjoying regularly. Luna was laughing, a relaxed bubbling of mirth that made Harry freeze in his objections.

The gentle lull of conversation continued, drifting to a different topic, but Harry leaned over to Draco and asked him quietly, “It helps Luna?”

Draco frowned at him for a moment, then understood, “Snarry? Shipping the characters as fictional? I don’t know really, but it does seem to make her laugh and that’s never a bad thing. It’s not particularly personal, you know that. It’s the characters not you, and it was probably easier with you not here,”

Harry nodded in understanding, letting the topic rest. He asked Ginny for the cheese board and she passed it to him. He dithered for a while over the options available, grateful for the variety and also unable to make any decisions as it had been so long since he’d regularly been able to have such a choice of cheese. To his bread, freshly baked by Ginny, he added some cheddar and added some chutney with a homemade label. He also cut a few chunks of Port Salut and Brie, which he ate with pleasure.

“Anyway,” Draco said to the table at large, continuing his train of thought whether anyone wanted to hear it or not, “Cursed Child. It’s so so in my extremely humble opinion, you know? Some good bits, like the sadly short-lived scene of Snape and Harry’s lesbian wedding, some less good bits like the Voldemort/Dumbledore sex scene,”

“The WHAT?” Harry exclaimed as Hermione and Luna collapsed in giggles at the other end of the table. Ginny was visibly fighting laughter. Severus smiled enigmatically, giving nothing away. Harry looked incredulously at Draco.

“That is most definitely a lie,” he said, half amused half concerned. He was fairly confident it couldn’t be real, but he couldn’t exactly be completely certain. 

Draco looked offended, “Would I lie to you?” he said, as overdramatic as possible, “Oh you wound me, Potter. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been as wounded in my life. The betrayal… After all these years I thought we were friends but no, you’ve just been playing with me. Toying with me. So cruel…”

Ginny was laughing now, rolling her eyes. Harry was certain that Severus’s lips twitched, hinting at suppressed laughter. He continued looking at Draco, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“The drive-by shootout comes as a bit of a surprise, of course,” Draco admitted, cheerfully spooning a large helping of coleslaw onto his plate. Harry gave up and started laughing too at this.

“You’re being silly,” he complained, but Draco only shrugged nonchalantly.

“Silly is good, fiction is fun, fandom is life,” Draco enthused.

“Are you ever serious?” Harry laughed, “Why do you like these fantasy worlds so much?”

“What else do you want to talk about?” Draco said, his voice suddenly serious, the conversation changing as sharply as his tone of voice, “Real world events? Literal neo-nazis? Marching and chanting? In power? Threatening violence? Actual, real, neo-nazis? Trust me, I’d know,”

Harry nearly flinched away, for the first time in a long time feeling a degree of fear for Draco, the passion and anger in both his voice and on his face reminding him of the power he’d once had. The table was silent, awkward, as Draco returned to eating now subdued. Harry regretted having pushed the topic now, both for having upset Draco and damaged the happily relaxed atmosphere that had presided until the outburst.

“Are you still selling cakes to the tea shop in the village?” Hermione asked into the silence.

“Yes,” Ginny answered, “It’s doing alright as a business. I’m not sure how much longer they’ll be wanting them at the current quantity though, the beginning and end of tourist season tends to vary a bit depending on the weather. We always play it a little by ear. And Luna’s prints sell reasonably well, the pictures that we can sell that is,”

The tone had changed though, and the conversation was more stilted. Draco didn’t sulk for long, but his cheerful conversation was more strained, more visibly an effort to keep everyone smiling. 

With lunch over, they moved to the living room to drink tea and enjoy some lavender and courgette fairy cakes. Hermione and Harry each took an armchair. Luna curled up in the middle of the sofa, her head resting lovingly on Ginny’s shoulder and her feet partially on Severus’s lap, who didn’t appear to be in the least bit bothered by this positioning. 

“How’s things at Jodrell Bank?” Harry asked, sipping at his tea and looking over at Hermione. She was tilting her head from side to side, stretching her neck muscles.

“Fine,” Hermione shrugged noncommittally.

“Just fine? Nothing more?” Harry asked again. It wasn’t a very thorough answer as to her workplace or how her professional life was going and he felt faintly hurt that she wasn’t willing to give him anything more. She looked at him skeptically, faint amusement playing across her features.

“Tell me, Harry,” she said, with an affectionately patronising tone, “Do you understand what I do at Jodrell Bank? Do you understand what my job entails? Do you really want to know all the details?”

Chastised, Harry nodded his understanding, taking no offence. She was right, he had only the most vague idea of what she did and knew that precise answers would just fly over his head. Presumably none of them understood her job, though Draco probably had the best chance of doing so.

“OK then, answer these questions: are you happy, have you found aliens yet and would you tell us if you did?” Harry tried again with a smile.

Hermione laughed, “I’m happy, not as such and that’s confidential,” she answered, giving him a slight wink.

“There’s some guy there she hates,” Draco added, his opinion unasked for but still appreciated by Harry.

“Was,” Hermione corrected sharply, adding to Harry’s interest.

“A work place rival?” he asked, intrigued, “…And, did Draco have anything to do with him being in the past tense?”

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes, “He was just a rather odious man, he got fired with nothing to do with me or Draco but just because he was not entirely competent and allegedly groped one of the data inputters. I had to work with him briefly and he managed to be infuriatingly stupid whilst also convinced of his own superiority. I don’t think he liked me, having the audacity to be black, female and infinitely more capable than him. But he’s gone now which is a blessed relief. Draco cannot actually get people removed, no matter how much he might like to pretend. This is reality, not fantasy land,”

Draco shrugged, and Harry could sense a frustration that he hadn’t been able to help Hermione with this unnamed man. Presumably there had been long months where she would come home and complain at length about him. Draco had once been able to dispose of people with relative ease, through a combination of political and financial power. The Malfoys had been major players in the Magical World, playing a crucial role not only in the ultimate outcome of the war but in the Ministry and Death Eater ranks. He’d adjusted well to his new life, so entirely different from everything he had known, but Harry realised there must still be moments when he missed the Magical World. Harry felt the same, for all the bad that they had experienced, magic had been amazing. There were so many elements from his teenage years that he bitterly missed. Magic, Hogwarts and all the people who’d died.

“It’s nice to have you back,” Hermione commented, and Draco nodded his agreement, “We were worried about you during the earthquake even though you kept saying it was all fine. And more recently, with well, you know…”

“It was fine, in the end. Maybe not ideal, but I was ok. Earthquakes are easier, in a way. Or maybe they’re just easier because I’ve experienced it so it seems less abstract, less intimidating. I never thought I’d need to actually learn what to do in the event of a missile strike though. That kind of threat, that’s from actual other people, that’s actual war. I thought that was all over…” Harry drifted off, and there was nothing much that anyone could say.


	4. July 2002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione grieves in the aftermath of the war (July 2002)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is really miserable in this chapter. She is also rather angry with a lot of people. Obviously, her feelings change (or the previous three chapters couldn’t have happened) and she is wrong about a number of things, either because she is blinded by her current feelings or because she simply doesn’t have all the information. No one is perfectly reliable (in chapter 2, Severus states something that is factually incorrect, which may or may not be apparent). Even I, the author, am not entirely reliable.
> 
> I find this story easy to write when I’m in the mood (though I would also ideally rather not be in the mood to write it). It tends to be inspired by the news and the fears that inspires. The next chapter will probably be “September 2017” and hopefully that will be finished/posted before September ends. I find it harder to edit/proofread this story though, as I often shock myself with what I’ve written. This paragraph is being written because I had to take a break after a line about three-quarters of the way through.

Hermione cried, slumped on the floor lacking the energy or emotional strength to move, the photo face down beside her. She wondered some days if she would ever be alright again. After all the effort that had gone into staying alive, she sometimes wished she hadn’t survived. If she’d died during the war, along with virtually everyone else she knew, then she wouldn’t be left here to face the shattered remains of her life and her world. The dead were laid to rest, the living faced the task of picking up the pieces and somehow continuing. The fact that the bodies were lost, buried in the collapsed confines of Hogwarts, swallowed down leaving nothing but desolate Scottish scenery with no hint of what had happened prevented any true knowledge of how many people had died, no funerals or direct opportunities for grieving. Yet at the same time, it was neater. There was nothing left to deal with, no need to care for the dead. They were merely gone. Forever.

The same had happened at the Ministry, at every house or building that was held together with magic. Without magic, they’d all been consumed, wiped out of existence as if they’d never been there. If they’d never been there to start with, Hermione’s life would have been easier. Magic had been amazing when she’d first received her Hogwarts letter, when she’d stepped off the train straight into a magical castle. She had thought it would solve everything, as long as she studied hard and learnt as much as she could. She had never thought that everything would fall to pieces and she’d be left with knowledge and qualifications that were ultimately useless. That after having been the star student all her life she would find herself an adult with no qualifications, no education to speak of, no future.

She looked once more at the photo, one of many that she’d strewn across the floor of the basic studio flat, and once more was overwhelmed with grief. It was one of the few remaining photographs of her with her parents. They weren’t dead, unlike the majority of the people in the other photos on the floor, but to her they were as good as. What had seemed at the time to be a stroke of genius was now a decision she would have to live with for the rest of her life. Removing their memory of her and sending them to the other side of the planet had protected them for the duration of the worst of the war, had meant that they were safe and no one could use them against her as she fought. Now, with no magic left, there was no way for her to undo her spells and return their memories of her. Without magic there was nothing to offer as proof if she approached them, nothing but a mad girl making a wild claim. She’d lost her parents, forever. Her whole family, every single one of them, knew nothing of her existence. She had disappeared from their lives and their minds, by her own choice and now there was no way for her to return.

Minerva padded over to her, nuzzling her gently. Hermione stroked the tabby cat, a fresh wave of tears welling up. She had stopped thinking of the cat as Professor McGonagall and started calling her Minerva. It felt disrespectful yet the title hurt her. She had no idea if the woman she’d once known was still there. She didn’t know which was better. It still grated with her, the way that Snape had so casually left her to be responsible for the cat. The way he’d coldly stated that hopefully she was just a cat and that any traces of the woman she had been had been extinguished, that had shocked Hermione to her core. Another proof that he had no human feelings. As she looked into the tabby cat’s eyes, she accepted that she was starting to understand what he had meant, even if the harshness still jarred. Minerva was stuck as a cat, with no way to change back. Maybe being unaware that she had once been human would be kinder. Just as it was probably kinder for her parents to never know that they’d once had a daughter. Just as she wished she was ignorant of so many things. That she was just a normal muggle.

A flat was no place for a cat, she thought bitterly, still resentful of the way in which Snape and Ginevra had disappeared away to some house in the middle of the Lakes. She knew, logically, that it would have been impractical for them to take Minerva with them and more importantly she would have resented it had they tried. Maybe she’d forgive them one day. Maybe she’d never see them again. She didn’t care anymore.

Of those left, she found Draco the easiest. She just pitied him. His hesitation had saved her life. By association, that had ensured Harry had survived too. And in a way, that had ensured that his friends and family had died instead, along with the ideology and world he’d been raised in. It was strange, in a way. Hermione wondered if it was connected to the privilege he’d been accustomed to, that meant that he had lacked the conviction to kill. Strange, given that it was the belief system that had permeated his entire life, yet it was Ginevra and Headmaster Snape who had proved to be far more effective executors. It was Ginevra, with her steely determination who had been a Death Eater to be feared, carrying out Snape’s orders with an air of complete calm. Even now, Hermione couldn’t face either of them, even knowing that they’d allegedly been on her side the whole time. Ginevra had been by Snape’s side, who’d been on Harry’s side. Hermione, to them, was just a person who’s life was perfectly expendable. Harry had always told her they were on their side, but Hermione knew it wasn’t that simple.

Harry had never been rational or capable of sound judgement when it came to Snape. He’d always let his emotions and assumptions take control. Initially this had taken the form of an obsessive hatred, which Hermione had struggled hard to contain and balance. When that had changed, still obsessive but no longer hateful Hermione had found it harder and harder to understand him. Snape had scared her just as he’d scared everyone the first time she’d seen him. It had been her first explicit understanding of magic, sitting in her first year Potions class as he spoke quietly, as the bats fluttered around them. Watching them crawl over his skin, clinging to his hair and clothes, had always revolted her somewhat. There was always a sense that it was in a way unnatural, so very far from her understanding of the way the world should be. 

Hermione had been a wide-eyed, innocent girl when she first started Hogwarts, but she’d always done her best to believe the best of everyone. It felt now like she’d spent her whole life disagreeing with Harry over Snape. The first few years she had been determined to respect and think well of their teacher, once her trust and good opinion had disappeared it felt like Harry and her had changed in their stance on him. She had always thought her opinion was logical and well thought-out in comparison to his which seemed to come from a deep, twisted emotional reaction. Even more than Draco or even Voldemort, Snape had seemed to inspire an intense reaction from Harry.

Harry had disappeared, just gone away somewhere and she had no idea where that was. A part of her felt guilty for her part in that, for the way she had screamed at him that it was all his fault. A part of her was relieved, that she no longer had to face him and those feelings. That she had time to forgive him, so that she could apologise eventually. The logical part of her, buried deep, knew it wasn’t really Harry’s fault, even though he had been the instigator of so much. He had merely been the tool with which it ended. Voldemort and Dumbledore were the ones who had set it up, had started everything. No matter what the price, Hermione accepted that it had to end. Endless war destroyed everything eventually. Maybe there had been a better way, but what was done was done. 

She would never stop loving Harry, she knew that. She’d loved him for too long. Given up too much for his sake. To stop now, to give up on their friendship would make all of the sacrifices of her life were worthless. But now a part of her hated him as well. Wished that he had died, so she could have mourned him and moved on. It would have been easier to forgive him then. If it had been a heroic work of fiction he would have died to save them all. But it wasn’t, he lived and it felt sometimes like everyone else had died. Ron had been the glue that held them together so now that he, along with his entire family, was gone, Hermione and Harry had fallen apart and Hermione was falling to pieces. Disintegrating in the face of grief from which she could have no respite. She knew, technically, that Ginevra had survived. The sole living Weasley, but she no longer counted her as one. She hadn’t for years now. She doubted if Ginevra considered herself to be a Weasley in anything but name, and even that was a name she rarely ever used.

But Draco, who she’d hated so much for so long, she could hold a conversation with. He still disgusted her to an extent, and she was still afraid of everything he had stood for, but she found comfort in talking to him. There was no need for games with him. They had been on opposing sides and now everything was over. Just as she was realising how much she had been brainwashed into an obedient soldier, he was facing that too. They were doing so from opposite points of view, but in a way that helped. When she lashed out about Dumbledore, the Order, any of those people she had known, there was no way in which Draco would defend them. Likewise, she felt no obligation to have anything nice to say about Voldemort and his Death Eaters. They both felt betrayed by Snape and Ginevra. Betrayed, angry and afraid. They both felt abandoned by Harry, who had ended everything and left them with nothing.

Maybe it was unfair of them to expect anything from Harry. It wasn’t like there was anything he could do to change things. There was nothing he could do to ease Hermione’s or Draco’s pain. He was as powerless and human as they were. Reduced, brought firmly back down to Earth, normal. They were all so ordinary in their mundanity now. Muggles, just like she had believed herself to be as a child. A memory she barely remembered, overwritten with the glory of magic. And now magic had been carved out of her, torn away never to return. Draco would never understand what it was like to have been consumed by the magical world only to be spat back out, back into the dullness of the muggle world. To him everything was new, even if it was everything he had been raised to fear and despise. It was odd that his family had still had money stored away in muggle banks, and yet it was also in character for the Malfoys to have a financial safety net, just in case. She hated him but still used his money. All of hers had been consumed when Gringotts collapsed. Ridiculous, that the pureblood family had thought to split their finances but the muggleborn hadn’t.

What did she know, she grieved to herself, stroking Minerva’s head softly. She had had grand dreams of learning and understanding. Yet all she found herself to have truly learnt was the art of warfare. She knew how to deal with explosions, how to cover her face from shrapnel. Keep your eyes closed and your ears covered. Nothing could save you from a direct hit, but if you were far enough away you had a chance of survival. She’d learnt not to underestimate the amount of damage the noise of an explosion could cause. What kind of buildings were most likely to withstand the blast and what structures were safest for shelter had become second nature to her at an age she should have been innocently exploring what kind of woman she was growing into. How could this knowledge ever be useful again? She hoped that it never would. But there was a heartbreaking realisation that she had, unknowingly, been raised as a child soldier. That her teenage years and early adulthood had been devoted to survival and military tactics. To fighting a war that she now didn’t understand. At the time it had all seemed so clear. Dumbledore had convinced her as he had convinced Harry. As he had convinced them all. But as time had worn on she had started to question why it had begun, why there was no hope for peace, why the word of magic she had been so enchanted with was determined to tear itself to pieces, to leave nothing but death.

She knew what it was that she was fighting against, that much was easy. Even now she regarded Voldemort as truly evil, just as she had when she’d first become aware of him as a child. She had resisted him, as he had wished to exterminate people like her. But to resist something, to fight against something was not the same as to fight for something. She fought against Voldemort. By association she had believed that that meant she fought for Dumbledore. Then she had believed she fought for Harry. The final battle she had fought for herself, against anyone who would do her harm. By then she had started to lose faith. The faith she’d had in Dumbledore’s lofty ideals had been shattered by Harry, and her faith in Harry had been shattered by his resolve to end things by any means necessary. She had helped him, willingly but uncertain. The guilt haunted her every waking thought and lurked in the dark recesses of her nightmares. Some of the guilt was for not having helped enough, maybe had she fully committed the end result would have been better. Some of the guilt was for having helped at all, maybe had she refused or fought against Harry the outcome would have been better. But no matter what she thought there was nothing she could do but live with what had happened. She should probably be grateful that she was alive and well. She had survived, unlike most. She was unharmed compared to Draco or Luna. But so often she found the wish that she had died, that she was dead, drifting into her head as if thought by someone else.

As a child she’d listened to her mother’s tapes of Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds over and over again. She’d loved the whole concept album, though she’d never found the time to read the original book. She’d been too young then, and then her life had been consumed with war. The only reading she’d done for years had been about dark magic, defensive strategies and military tactics. Research for the most effective manner of defeating enemies. Effective methods of torture and obtaining reliable information. There had been no pleasure in books. Now there was time to read and lose herself in fantasy worlds as much as her heart desired, but she had no desire to do anything. Even reading was too much effort. There was a line from the album that she’d always thought to be so overdramatic, that as a child she’d never been able to comprehend how anyone could ever feel that way, but now it echoed through her consciousness on repeat. _The survivors will envy the dead._

And now, now as the words repeated over and over in her mind she could understand. It would be easier to be dead. If she was dead it would all be over. But she was alive and there was nothing she could do but try to continue surviving even though her life had lost all meaning. And with every repetition, she remembered the way her mother would smile, the way they’d talk about books for hours when she was still young, the way that she’d never have that relationship back no matter what she did.

Minerva purred, utterly oblivious to the thoughts running through Hermione’s head. It had been Minerva, the professor, the woman, who had taught Hermione a lot of battle techniques. From the first lessons in how to take evasive action, ducking and running, back in the first few years of her magical education, to the more advanced spells and strategies of her final years preparing to serve on the frontline. She had admired the woman. Now she fed her from a tin and emptied her litter tray. 

“Why?” she asked hopelessly, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. Draco was the only one she could contact who might answer her, even if his answers were as grief-stricken and clueless as her own. For all that they were in reach, Hermione would not reach out to Ginevra and Snape for anything. 

Ginevra had been a sweet child when Hermione first met her. Ron’s little sister. Everyone had called her Ginny then. But sweet little Ginny had been abducted by Voldemort under his original name of Tom Riddle, and as he had promised, Hermione now knew that Ginny had died in the Chamber of Secrets. The girl who had returned had still used the name of Ginny for a while but she’d been changed, even if it took them far too long to notice it. Ginevra had claimed to be a spy, working against Voldemort with Snape. Gathering information and saving lives. Harry had accepted that, seemed to have known all along, had shown no objection. His trust had never been shaken. But if they had been saving lives and passing along information then shouldn’t they have known what Harry was planning, and been able to save more people? That thought haunted her and she found it hard to forgive. At the very least one of them could have warned her of the outcome. She refused to believe everyone was ignorant of what would happen.

But more than anything she couldn’t believe that they were unaware of what had happened to Luna, the girl who had been Ginny’s friend. Hermione had naively believed that even Ginevra had cared for the odd girl, but no one would leave their friend locked away in a basement to be raped repeatedly without batting an eyelid. No one who had a heart. No one capable of empathy. Hermione hated visiting Luna in hospital, so in a way it was good how often she was restrained and barred from having outside visitors. Seeing the feeding tube made her feel sick and Luna had so far refused to speak a single word to her. The fact that Ginevra had chosen to disappear away into the countryside seemed to speak volumes about how little she really cared. Except for Snape, maybe. They seemed to care for each other in some twisted, dependant manner, if two people utterly bereft of human feelings could care. She hadn’t believed the rumours about them when they’d first begun, as Ginevra had been so young then. They had all still believed her to be the same innocent Ginny, saved from the Chamber of Secrets. Now, however, she wondered if there wasn’t some truth in them. Ginevra had definitely spent far too much time with Snape late at night even then, sneaking around, even before she was his Head Girl. A combination of the young Tom Riddle’s lingering hold on her and Snape’s constant seduction would explain why she had grown into such a cold and cruel woman. 

In comparison, Hermione felt like on the inside she was still the same person she had always been. She hoped she was. She wasn’t on the outside. She had recently shaved all of her hair off. She didn’t quite know why, except that she had wanted to be new. To be someone different. Removing all her hair had felt within her limited power, seeing as she now had no power to speak of. As they camped out on the run from Voldemort, searching down his Horcruxes and killing his followers, she had kept her hair short from practicality. Now, she had no reason to care for it so she’d let it grow into a tangled mess.

It had felt good, sitting on the floor in the shower, the water washing away her tears as she let herself go numb. She had started with her feet and legs. She’d never shaved her feet before, but she had decided to shave fully and from the tip of her toes to the top of her head seemed the best way to do it. Her legs were simple, a body part she was familiar with shaving. She’d worked her way up, slowly removing every hair she could find. Her head had taken the longest. The only moment she’d hesitated in her steady, methodical shaving was when she came finally to her eyebrows. Removing them would be visible, in a way even more odd and visible than having shaved her head. But she felt committed to the act, as if it was vitally important that she finish. So they were carefully shaved off as well. They were only made of hair, they would grow back. Her eyelashes were the only hairs remaining when she dried herself off. Maybe once the stubble pricking and itching its way through her skin had regrown to proper hair she would be a new Hermione, able to cope and deal with her new life. Maybe this made her as mad as Luna.

She wondered how Draco would react when she next visited him. Would he insult her, would he laugh at her, or would he understand her. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice, so wrapped up in his own suffering. Maybe she meant nothing to him, simply his sole, occasional visitor. Maybe once he was released from hospital he would disappear like Harry. She wondered if she cared. He could go be obnoxious far away from her. His face reminded her of too much. Maybe it would be better for her to stop visiting him, to start her life anew. But she didn’t know where to start, so for now she was wasting hours of her life sitting by his bedside. It wasn’t like she had much else that she did, except crying on her floor and talking to Minerva. Buying food and eating it. She rarely felt inspired to cook, and she didn’t have much in the way of cooking utensils anyway. Harry’s aunt and uncle had done their best to help her, giving her some basics to set up her new little home, but she hadn’t been able to be grateful. It had been a kindness they didn’t need to show her, but they had done it anyway. They had helped her with the flat too. She hadn’t seen them since, hadn’t contacted them, hadn’t made any effort. She was barely alive, living off discounted sandwiches and cheap alcohol from the nearby supermarkets. Maybe she should visit Draco more, for lack of anything better to do. Maybe one day she would find the strength to start looking through the information Dudley had given her about adult education, which lay in a pile on the floor.

She wondered what normal, muggle children learnt. She had not thought it odd how much of the Hogwarts curriculum was dedicated to the art of war. How she had spent her teenage years learning how to fight and kill. Somehow it had crept in slowly as she grew up, the need to learn defence against an unknown, mysterious enemy. The Dark Arts and all who practised them were evil, that was a stated fact that she had been taught week in week out since she was eleven. It was in all the permitted textbooks of Hogwarts. Even in her first year they had had drills, where the alarms sounded and they took protective action, normally in the form of cowering face down, their protective hoods up, eyes closed and hands over their ears. Planned drills had only been occasional then, no more than once a month, but after that year they had increased in frequency. Plus they had had the real alarms, even if some of them turned out to be false. Dumbledore had started performing drills no longer planned and warned for in advance, where they would know it was coming and be prepared for the sirens in class. Then they would crouch, eyes and ears covered, under their desks as they waited for the all clear sign. But the drills without warning, where they had no way of knowing if they were drills or a real attack, those came at any time of day or night, and each time brought a deep fear and uncertainty. The alarm cut right to the bone, piercing her heart like shattered glass. She still heard it echoing in her dreams. 

But she’d loved it anyway. Even now she longed for the simplicity of her life in the castle, always watched over by Dumbledore. They had all loved Hogwarts, even Voldemort in his strange, twisted way. He had defined himself by his love and hate for Hogwarts, staked his whole identity in opposition to Dumbledore. She had been heartbroken when muggleborns had been banned, no longer accepted as first years. Ironically, that decision had no doubt saved those children’s lives though they wouldn’t know it. She had no longer been a student but a solider then, heading off to fight in the never-ending war. Only it hadn’t been never-ending, because it had ended. She’d served as as soldier for the cause only for a few years before everything had ended. She had been fighting for victory, for survival and for an ending. But she hadn’t been fighting for the ending she got. Voldemort didn’t win. Neither did Dumbledore. Not even Harry had won. No one won. Everyone lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture is not an effective method of obtaining information. It is in fact a very unreliable method of obtaining information. Hermione isn’t fully aware of this at this point, because she’s yet to read those science articles. I just want to make that absolutely clear. Torture does not work. Morals aside, it is incredible inefficient. The best way to obtain information from enemy combatants is through camaraderie and kindness. So always oppose torture. It is not something that might be acceptable in extreme circumstances, because in those circumstances it will still be unreliable. People confess to things they think you want to hear to stop the torture, leading to incorrect information, and people who have been trained to withstand torture won’t break so it’s worthless.


	5. September 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 2017

The autumn chill came softly, seeping into the house slowly. Harry appreciated the gentleness of it compared to the sudden drop he had grown accustomed to. He watched as dull red started to caress the landscape, oozing across the leaves of the trees surrounding the house in silent, patient preparation for when they would fall. He helped Ginny in the garden, harvesting whatever she directed him to, learning to tell what was ripe and what wasn’t. She even trusted him to pick the raspberries every evening by himself, bringing in large bowls for them to eat. Some Ginny would freeze, for later use that Harry assumed he would discover at a later date.

Here, life felt slow. It was peaceful though. Harry wasn’t sure if he was entirely happy, but he was probably content. It was likely the same for the three he shared the house with. Maybe, he thought pensively, being content was enough. Happiness seemed to be fleeting and insubstantial. But being content was reassuring. He felt at home, for all that he’d never lived in the Lake District before. He had camped somewhere in the region with Ron and Hermione a long time ago, hiding and hunting, back in what felt like another lifetime. He had had no appreciation for the area then, too caught up in the hardships of their reality and the constant dangers that had consumed their every waking thought. Now everything was different, and yet some things were still the same.

Hermione and Draco visited again, another weekend of staying, a routine presence that twisted at Harry’s heart. The realisation of their regular habits delighted him with their company, but it also demonstrated plainly what he had missed over the last few years. His absence felt lonely, the years of being away in other countries smarting at the sting of the time lost. He did not regret his travels, the people he had met or the places he had seen, but he did regret the distance it had placed between him and the people who he considered his second family. He had missed his real family as well. To return and realise how close they all were, how tightly bound they were, it allowed the insecure voice inside to wonder if he truly belonged with them, even knowing that he was one of the main ties that had bound them all together in the first place. They hadn’t needed him once the war was over, their friendships deepening and strengthening as he faded away, erasing himself from their realities.

He drifted to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and help himself to some biscuits while the rest of them were preparing for the regular monthly event of Draco and Hermione piling into their car and driving back to their home. Hermione had suggested he come visit them, even musing about the feasibility of him returning with them, but he had put it off for later. For the time being, he was content to stay where he was, to see if he was willing to put down roots for as long as Ginny, Luna and Severus considered him a welcome presence. The real question in that equation he knew was Ginny. Severus would placidly welcome him without objection. Luna was still disquieted by his presence, so he struggled to judge what of her skittish behaviour was normal for her and what was a reaction to him. It would be Ginny who might ultimately judge him to be causing harm to either Luna or Severus, who would, with her gentle but firm manner, tell him to leave. It was her who held control. For all her affection for him, he knew that she would prioritise Luna and Severus, that she would do what she considered to be necessary, as she always had done. He had always admired that steely resolve of hers, and he knew it was what had drawn her and Severus together.

Draco seemed to materialise out of nowhere, a feat impressive for a man in a wheelchair, but Harry had been distracted, both by his thoughts and by the kettle. 

“Making tea without telling anyone?” he asked with an amused smile, his trademark good humour brightening the room, “I thought that was a crime in this house. I’ll have a cup, though just a small one seeing as we’ll be hitting the road soon,”

Harry rolled his eyes at the cheerful confidence Draco exuded, pouring him a delicate china cup full of tea in addition to his own mug, setting them both down on the kitchen table. He had taken to using a mug that had the Harry Potter glasses and lightning bolt scar in stylised black on it, mainly because it seemed to amuse Luna. He hadn’t worn circular glasses like that in a long time, currently favouring tortoiseshell rims in a style he was starting to suspect might be faintly Japanese, and he was forever grateful to Sybil for creating such an iconic scar for his fictional counterpart rather than the hideous reality he lived with.

“How can you be so optimistic?” Harry asked suddenly, deeply curious about his one-time rival’s state of mind. They had been rivals when they first met, which deepened to pure enmity and then changed to a strange truce as they found themselves to be amongst the few survivors. It was Draco he had communicated with the most regularly out of the people he had known from Hogwarts. He chatted with the Dursleys in the family WhatsApp group chat, but aside from that his contact with those he had known in had Britain tended to be erratic. Being mutuals with Draco on tumblr meant that they interacted, even if it wasn’t about anything personal they still had a strange kind of contact.

Draco frowned at the question and looked away. He seemed to be considering it fairly, which Harry was grateful for. He almost expected a flippant reply, but he knew that there was more to Draco than the smile he often chose to present to the world. For all of his silly ideas and jokes, he had survived a war. He had lost everything and somehow rebuilt his life. His ideology had been shattered, and now he was effectively a muggle when he had been raised to despise them. That he continued resolutely, re-evaluating everything he had been taught and reforging himself, was something that Harry rather admired. 

“Because I have to believe things will get better in some way. Because I have to believe that the worst won’t happen. Otherwise, why are we still alive?” came the answer, slowly delivered and almost reluctantly voiced. 

“But we’ve already lived through this,” Harry reasoned, his mind fatalistically falling back to the last few hours of the war, “And it was the worst case scenario, don’t you think? No one really won, everyone just lost everything. So many people died when the magic went away,” 

He closed his eyes briefly, then rephrased, owning his responsibility, “When I removed magic, it wasn’t anything super complicated. It caused all those deaths but that was a chain reaction. I couldn’t direct it. I… didn’t mean for so many people to die. Like a mutually destructive nuclear war. It ended our war, but mainly because there’s nothing left. If America and North Korea go to war… If they have a nuclear war…”

Harry trailed off, struggling to continue, is mind torn between fears for the future and memories of the complex calculations of a spell. 

“I feel like every time I look at the news something worse has happened,” he admitted, “Like everything is just getting steadily worse and there’s going to be a point when it’s all inevitable. North Korea shot two missiles over Hokkaido in like two weeks, imagine what it must have been like to receive alerts about incoming missiles… And Trump just escalates things with his terrifying tweets and off-the-cuff remarks… What if they do test a hydrogen bomb in the Pacific Ocean? That has to go over at least Japan to get there… The early warning system is great, but it doesn’t give much warning. It’s a matter of minutes…”

Draco lifted his tea to his lips, though it was too hot still for him to drink. It was more a gesture of comfort, warming his hands on the heated china and smelling the reassuring aroma. Harry had missed good English tea so bitterly in Japan that once he’d settled at a regular address he’d asked Petunia to send him packs of Yorkshire loose leaf tea. In some ways that had been the first sign that he had been healing and was ready to return. He had been abroad for long enough and had travelled widely enough that he would still sometimes make himself a good cup of chai or a delicate pot of jasmine tea with the same sense of homecoming as he received from a cup of Yorkshire. He wondered if he would still be in England come summer, and if the summer would be hot enough for him to crave a cold barley tea like he was accustomed to in the heat of the Japanese summer. For now, everything in England was still too fresh and exciting, old foods and flavours that he hadn’t had regularly for so long. There was something of his childhood in everything, memories of a more innocent time overwriting the memories of the war that had been all he could think of in relation to Britain until quite recently.

“Muggle children don’t normally learn about war, not outside of some theoretical textbook notation of dates, but elementary school children are having drill in what to do if there’s a missile or something. It wasn’t odd to us, when we were at Hogwarts, but now I know that it is. Children aren’t supposed to be anywhere near war,” he paused, then continued softly, “Neither should adult,”

“I don’t want to think about that,” Draco said simply, answering the question succinctly. 

Harry stared at him in surprise.

“I want to believe that history won’t repeat. I want to believe that the muggles will get it right. I want to believe that I can help, in some small way, to help make everything alright,” Draco sighed, seemingly having difficultly fully explaining himself, casting his eyes around the kitchen. 

He seemed to pause, looking at the pile of letters stacked haphazardly on the table, before continuing lightly, though there was a hint of a strain to his smile, “Well, looks like this week’s New Scientist will be about the countdown to nuclear annihilation, so that might be right up your street,”

Harry followed his gaze to the front cover of the magazine.

“I’ve been reading it to Severus,” he said idly, considering the evenings when he had sat besides his ex-teacher and read aloud words that he didn’t always understand. At least once he’d mangled a pronunciation so badly that Severus had called Ginny in to correct him, and he hadn’t felt that his mistake had quite warranted the edge of hysteria to the laughter his original attempt had induced in Ginny. He had enjoyed her laughter though, so he had not taken too much offence at being on the receiving end of it. 

“Usurping Ginny’s role, I see,” Draco smiled, clearly poking the topic of the conversation towards more lighthearted themes. 

“She doesn’t seem to mind,” Harry said with a shrug, “We took turns reading last week’s one. Maybe we’ll do the same this week,”

He smiled at the memory of that evening, “Luna listened too. The first few times she kind of hovered in the doorway, but last week she came and sat on the floor by my feet. It was nice. She was a bit restless at first, but then Severus joined her. It seemed to me that she was almost at peace,”

“He’s nearly sixty,” Draco objected with a hint of mirth, clearly not entirely serious, “You shouldn’t be making the poor man sit on the damn floor,”

“He’s got less grey hairs than me!” Harry exclaimed indignantly, “Besides, I didn’t make him do anything. I never make him do anything. I try not to at least,” he cast his eyes down, uncertain now.

“True,” Draco agreed, giving him a critical look, choosing to ignore Harry’s uncertain mumbles in favour of judging his hair, “But you’ve not got that many,”

Harry was if anything less reassured by this, “I’ve got more than any of you lot,” he huffed, feeling somewhat nostalgic at the idea of being casually insulted by Draco. It was almost like being a first year again, fresh off the train and sneered at with an offhanded disinterest. 

Draco shrugged, “Severus is just weird. You know that, it’s probably the magic. He doesn’t really count. Malfoys are blonde. Very blonde. My father…” he stopped abruptly.

“Your father wasn’t very old,” Harry pointed out, before wincing in regret at the words. Lucius and Narcissa hadn’t been very old when they had died, and no matter how he considered it Harry was aware that he was the major contributor in ultimately causing their deaths. 

“My grandfather…” Draco started again, before shaking his head, “Look, my hair had always been nearly white. It’ll just fade a little, I guess. Luna’s blonde too, blondes just fade. Ginny maybe the same, I actually don’t really know about redheads that much. Not my area of speciality. And Hermione is perfect in every way,”

Harry snorted, letting it go. He knew he had the occasional grey hair but it didn’t really bother him that much. He was alive, which was in many ways entirely against all the odds. Signs of age were a part of surviving. You died young or grew old. Growing old seemed much more preferable to him, especially given how many of his friends had never had a chance to do so. He let the silence drift, his thoughts turning to Severus kneeling on the floor at his feet.

“I know what he promised her,” Harry said suddenly, breaking their peaceful silence. It was not something he admitted often, and not a topic he had ever spoken of with anyone. That the first one he would even hint at his inner turmoil to was Draco surprised him, but in a way it made the most sense. Draco had not been his friend at first, so maybe the distance that he felt, even though it was imagined, was in some way a help. Outside he could hear birdsong and the rustle of the wind in the trees, blowing the autumn chill into the kitchen much in the same way the solemn nature of pieces of their conversation had chilled his heart. 

Draco was looking at him thoughtfully, and Harry felt like a microbe under a microscope. He could feel Draco’s contemplations, the way he was wondering.

“Not quite as simple as loyalty or protection?” Draco asked carefully, the subtlety showing the sharp mind that had been Voldemort’s General. 

Harry sighed, playing with a custard cream but not eating it.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I still don’t know how I feel about it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to understand…”

Draco was looking at him almost hopefully, his expression carefully not showing anything but gentle, neutral encouragement.

“I’m not telling you,” Harry said firmly, “It’s between me and him. I realise that now. And maybe it’ll never be quite alright, but it’s something I have to face eventually. Would a magical promise still be binding even now? But I don’t even know if it was an Unbreakable Vow or not. I don’t know what it means to him and I don’t ever want to have to ask,”

“Hey,” Draco said, a concerned frown creasing his face, clearly lost but still trying, “I… I don’t know what to say but I know that he loves you if that helps? Or that we all care? Or…?” he trailed off as he realised that his words if anything seemed to be causing Harry more distress.

Across the table from each other they drank their tea, the silence tentative and heavy. Harry struggled inside his mind, searching for something to say to break it. He had raised the issue, had broached the subject and then shied away from it sharply. His eyes once again found the issue of New Scientist that Draco had cheerfully indicated.

“So I guess this is the kind of thing you won’t be reading,” he asked, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the magazine cover, drawing Draco’s attention back to muggle politics rather than the complexities of secret promises made decades ago. 

“I’ll probably read it when I get back home,” Draco shrugged, “Hermione subscribes and I’ve got in the habit of flicking through it too. It’s interesting to know. Useful,”

There was a moment of silence, before Draco continued, his voice strangely serious, “Sometimes I worry that Hermione believes science will solve everything. That she’s just replaced magic with science. Magic couldn’t solve everything, neither can science,”

Harry frowned at him, saying nothing to let him speak freely even if it wasn’t completely fluently.

“Magic could be used for some amazing things. It could cure diseases and injuries that muggle science still can’t. It could do so much good. But it could also kill, maim and destroy. It could be used for so much bad. It was used for some dreadful things, though we thought they were really quite normal. Isn’t it just the same with muggle science. It’s amazing. We have pictures of parts of the solar system, they’ve found the Higgs boson, so many diseases have been eradicated. But we also have the threat of nuclear war due to science. Chemical weapons. It’s so easy to use science to hurt people. It’s just like magic, no better than the people that have control. And I’m not sure if the muggles are any more worthy of that kind of responsibility than we were,”

Harry nodded, honoured to be allowed to shared in the more serious nature that Draco rarely indulged in, but also a little sad to face the melancholy within both of them rather than the lighthearted prattle that they could have stuck to. He found that he had nothing to respond with, silently draining his mug.

“And you’ll be back next month,” Harry commented as Draco too finished his cup, taking it along with the mug to rinse out with water and place by the sink to be washed later.

“Like we do every month, like we’ve done for years,” Draco smiled, leaving their conversation behind to focus on their daily realities, “Occasionally they’ll come down but our place is smaller. Plus, neither Severus nor Luna can drive. Severus for fairly obvious reasons, and lovely as Luna is I’m not sure I’d want her to be in control of a moving vehicle. Luckily she appears to agree with this assessment. But that means that Ginny has to do all the driving and of course Luna doesn’t like being in a confined space for long, so Severus has to look after her and they have to both not distract Ginny while she’s driving. Plus of course they need plenty of stops so it’s a bit of a hassle. But for us a weekend in the Lakes is much more manageable,”

He looked thoughtfully at Harry before adding, “You should learn to drive. I’m sure it’d help Ginny,”

For a moment Harry though he was going to add something more, but nothing more was forthcoming. He wondered if there had been a joke that Draco had considered to be in potential bad taste after their more serious conversation. 

“I can drive,” Harry objected, faintly petulantly, “I have a driving licence. I learnt in Japan,”

Draco seemed surprised by this, so Harry continued with and indignant, “I’ll show you, you git,” though the insult had no malice to it.

“I don’t need to see,” Draco said with a laugh, “But can you even use that here? Did you actually drive in Japan? Or did you just pass your test and never go near a steering wheel again?”

Harry pursed his lips in amused resignation, “I can use it here, I think. But I didn’t really drive much in Japan. I haven’t really driven in about four years…”

“Oh lord…” Draco responded, which was probably a rather accurate assessment of Harry’s confidence in his own driving.

That night after Draco and Hermione had left, for the first time in a long time, Harry finally did something he had been wanting to do for years. He’d agonised over it every night he’d gone to sleep since arriving at the house, lying awake at night resisting temptation, conflicted over his feelings and uncertain of the sincerity of his potential welcome. Drawing back the covers, he withdrew from the warm comfort of the bed, slipping on his slippers and considering his dressing gown. He decided against it, despite the slight chill. The cold would prompt him to act rather than hesitating, he hoped. His glasses he left on his bedside table, choosing to navigate the darkened house through blurred shadows.

He padded along the landing, past Ginny and Luna’s bedroom door, past the rarely entered room where they kept old mementos of their shared magical past, down the stairs. He was by now familiar with the creaky floorboards and steps, but still not accustomed enough to avoid them all. He didn’t care though, if anyone heard him creep around at night. The phase of his life, that had overshadowed most of his existence, when he’d obsessed over the need to move silently due to enemies lurking in every corner, was long gone. He knew that Ginny and Luna might hear him, might be woken and tense up as he still sometimes did when he heard an unexpected sound in the dark, but he also knew that they would go back to sleep. They had each other, they were comfortable in their home. To them the creaks were no doubt familiar and by now they would be accustomed to sounds of him moving at night. As he headed down the stairs to the hallway, he wondered if Severus could hear the creaks and moans of the house, if he was still awake, if he was lonely. 

He stood outside his bedroom door, staring at the whitewashed wood in the dark. He could feel the chill of the night air seeping into him, freezing him internally, caressing his bones. He hesitated, as he knew he would, torn. He considered knocking, dismissing that alternative immediately. For some reason, that was the least appealing option. A part of him was tempted to turn around, return up the stairs to his warm bed, as he had done more than once since his arrival. But a stronger part of him, the part that had faced Voldemort multiple times without flinching, that part held him in place. This was the part of him that had remained calm and collected during an earthquake. This was the part of him that had resolutely destroyed an entire world. This was the part of him that kept on pushing forward despite the demons he now carried with him, the part of him that made up his core. He was brave, brave beyond belief, and his bravery compelled him onwards.

He opened the door, the hinges creaking slightly, knowing that Severus’s door had never truly been closed to him. It had never been that way in the past, so now Harry chose to continue as if there had been no interruption, as if he had never left. Afraid both that this may have changed and also that nothing would have changed, not sure which option he wanted the most. Confused even in his own mind if being welcomed or rejected would hurt more.

He crossed the threshold, grateful for the moonlight spilling in through the windows without curtains, lighting the sparse room with its eerie, mystical light. Slowly, careful of his footing, he made his way to the bed. The colours of the room seemed to be grey in the darkness, though whether that was the case or a trick of the light Harry couldn’t tell. He had never associated Severus with colour, unless black counted. Even now, amongst the reddening leaves of the Lake District, Severus seemed to belong to a different colour scheme, one that suited the night, filled with deep shadows and fluttering bats.

He stood over the bed, gazing at the figure in it. His night vision, even had he chosen to wear his glasses, was not good enough to distinguish clearly the expression on Severus’s face, or even confirm for certain if he was awake or asleep. He could hear his breathing, steady and combining with his own as the only sounds in the room. For as long as Harry stood there, locked in place, it felt like there was nothing in the world beyond the room and their breaths.

Then, he moved, climbing under the covers into the bed. He could still feel the slight chill of the autumn night air clinging to his flesh, coming into contact with the cozy warmth of an occupied bed, the two temperatures doing battle with each other and eliciting a shiver from Harry.

“It’s been a while,” Severus said, his voice calm and richly velvet, giving Harry no indication of how long he had been awake for, if he had woken him or not. As always there was little to indicate exactly what Severus was thinking, what he felt.

Harry lay there, close but as always, not touching.

“I missed you,” Harry admitted into the darkness, feeling the chasm between them that had always existed, the depth of feeling and the uncrossable distance. He had spent many nights in Severus’s bed, so close and seemingly intimate, but so clearly separated, never once touching.

“You will always be welcome,” Severus said, as he had said many times before, “My door, my bed, my heart. Nothing is closed to you. Ask and you will receive. I can deny you nothing,”

“I know,” Harry said heavily. They lay in silence, one that was both comfortable and awkward, a tangled knot of understanding twisting between them. Harry felt the reassurance of unchangeable nostalgia as he felt the piercing pain of responsibility tearing through his mind. The uncertainty mixed with certainty, one and the same.

“Severus,” he asked, “You know it’s wrong, right?”

“Wrong?” came the curious response, the familiar voice caressing the word gently as if it was foreign and newly encountered.

“Strange. Incomprehensible. Unusual. It’s not something you can promise. It’s not something you should be able to promise,” Harry tried, attempting to express himself, knowing all the while that he would never be able to fully put it into words.

Severus remained silent for a while. Harry felt the tension within his body increasing as he wondered what Severus was thinking, what he was feeling, whether he would reply. He regretted speaking, voicing his uncertainty.

“You have to understand, I know no other way,” Severus said slowly, “Maybe it is strange to you, but I don’t think I can change it now,”


	6. November 1989

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 1989. Petunia and Vernon Dursley have a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dudley is two years older than Harry, in case that isn't completely clear in the narrative.  
> Also, I cried writing the first bit of this chapter and again proofreading it. Is that kind of pathetic? I hope I'm not the only author out there who makes themselves cry with their own writing/ideas...

Petunia opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs yet again, as she had countless times before in the evening, unable to leave it be. She never closed it fully, always leaving it ajar, always returning moments later to check on her nephew. He was curled up miserably amongst the blankets, fretfully clutching Dudley’s old and worn yellow elephant, but thankfully asleep now. She could feel tears pricking at the backs of her eyes, the tears that had threatened to fall all day, the struggle growing harder as the evening had worn on. It was Vernon’s comforting hand on her shoulder, softly providing his support, that lead to them finally falling, her vision of the sleeping boy blurring as she turned away and buried her face in her husbands chest. Quietly, he held her, rubbing her back gently until her sniffles were under control.

“It’s a good question, though,” he said quietly in her hair, careful not to disturb Harry, “But do we know the answer?”

Petunia turned to look again at her nephew with a heavy heart. Vernon combed his fingers through her hair, and gave her a gentle push towards the kitchen.

“I’ll put him to bed,” he said, “You make us a herb tea,”

She followed his directions, filling the kettle and putting it on as he painstakingly positioned himself in the cupboard doorway so he could scoop Harry into his arms. Harry shifted restlessly, but with a practised ease Vernon shushed him softly. He knew from experience that he had to take it slow and tonight more than ever it was vitally important that Harry was not awakened. Petunia withdrew two mugs from the kitchen cupboard, watching with a tearful smile as he carried the sleeping boy carefully up the stairs. She tossed in chamomile tea bags and poured on the hot water as he walked along the landing, taking care to not jostle Harry. Finally reaching Harry’s bedroom, he softly placed him into his bed, drawing up the covers to keep the boy and his yellow elephant warm. Thankfully, Harry remained asleep, undoubtably as exhausted from the evening of crying as Vernon and Petunia were. Leaving him sleeping, not even daring to brush a kiss to his forehead in case the scratch of his moustache disturbed Harry’s slumber, Vernon returned to his wife in the kitchen.

The worst day of Petunia’s life had begun the morning she opened the door that fateful autumn day years ago to discover her baby nephew abandoned on their doorstep, cold and shivering. She had broken down in hysterics, terrified as she and Vernon had frantically tried to warm him. Dudley, only a toddler at the time, had been confused and scared as they left him with their neighbours and rushed to the hospital for medical help. Petunia had often wondered if it was the effect of that day, even if Dudley couldn’t remember it, that had meant he took protecting his younger cousin so seriously. It had been a constant relief, once Harry had been given the all-clear and they’d been able to bring him home, that Dudley and he had grown up so close. They looked nothing alike, with Dudley being big and blonde and Harry small and dark, and their personalities were just as dissimilar, but they were closer than brothers.

Just as Dudley had been overprotective of his young cousin, Harry had followed Dudley everywhere he could with wide, adoring eyes. Harry’s favourite soft toy, the yellow elephant, had originally been Dudley’s but he’d given it to Harry on the very first day when his parents had returned home. They had bought him toys since then, but he’d always preferred the yellow elephant and once he’d realised that it had once been Dudley’s favourite given to him for protection before he had any toys of his own, his preference had been cemented.

Petunia sighed, sitting on the stool at the breakfast bar, wrapping her hands round the warm mug. Vernon leaned against the counter by the sink, inhaling the comforting aroma of chamomile. Both boys had grown up, Harry’s health luckily not having suffered despite having spent a night on their doorstep as a baby, and now Dudley had started at secondary school and was on his first school trip away from home. She was sure that he was having a great time in France with the rest of his year, and knew without having to be told that he would be carefully choosing a souvenir for Harry. She knew that undoubtably he would put far more thought into that gift than anything he hurriedly bought her and Vernon, and it warmed her heart. Watching Harry’s misery at being left behind first in primary school and then in England was heartbreaking. She and Vernon had suspected that he was being bullied, though whether that was something that had gotten worse now that Dudley was no longer at his school to provide protection or something that had only recently started they didn’t know.

He was an unusual child, it was true, though a loving one. The scar on his neck, a hideous mess that had alarmed the doctors and proved to be entirely permanent, was another possible reason that they had sadly thought of. Now with Dudley no longer just at a different school but in another country, no matter how much they had reassured him that the week would be over soon, Harry had retreated to the safety of the cupboard under the stairs that he and Dudley had used as their den years ago to cry himself to sleep after an evening of tearfully asking his aunt and uncle when he would get to go to the same school as his cousin again, desperate for their reassurance that he would end up at the same secondary school, unaware that it was a question that Petunia and Vernon, for all their comforting words, couldn’t answer.

“How can we know?” Vernon asked, “If he’ll go to school here or…?”

“Or there…” Petunia finished sadly. She sipped at her tea, letting the familiar taste soothe her.

“I don’t know,” she said, “A letter comes in the summer, but that leaves no time to prepare. We knew earlier though because…” she trailed off thoughtfully.

Vernon cradled his herb tea, letting her cast her mind back to her childhood, patiently waiting. He knew enough to know that the memories were painful to her.

“I don’t know,” she repeated, “But I know who will know - Severus,”

“Lily’s friend?” Vernon asked, the strange name vaguely familiar from Petunia’s stories of her youth.

Petunia paused, considering, “No, I wouldn’t call them friends,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t like to call that friendship,” she admitted.

“How can we contact him?” Vernon said, focusing on the most important task ahead of them, “Do you know his address? Does he have a phone number?”

Petunia drank her tea, giving him a slightly embarrassed smile, “I think I know how, but it might sound a bit crazy…” she said. He waited curiously, and she inhaled with determination.

“Tell any bats you encounter that Petunia wants to speak to Severus,” she said with a slight laugh. He gave her a faintly alarmed look, but she just shook her head in acknowledgement of how strange it sounded.

“He always had a way with bats, he was a strange boy, so if we get word to the bats they’ll pass on the message. All we have to do is hope that he remembers who I am. Maybe saying Lily’s sister wants to talk to Severus would be better…” she paused, thinking of her sister, “Assuming he’s still alive, that is…”

That was why Vernon chose to take the small compost pot of tea leaves and other scraps to the compost heap at the end of the garden late that night. He had never really given much thought to whether or not their garden or the surrounding area had bats or not but there was definitely wildlife rustling at night. Feeling faintly insane, he muttered “Petunia wants to speak to Severus, Lily’s sister wants to speak to Severus,” as he walked up the lawn close to the trees that ran along the edge. It was a phrase he found himself repeating after dark the next two nights as well, making the extra effort to wander out towards the fields past their street in the hope of finding more bats, convinced that he was acting like a lunatic but desperate with the hope that Petunia was right and that somehow they would be able to receive some assistance from the mysterious Severus.

After three such nights, when they were once again drinking herb tea in the kitchen after Vernon had relocated a sleeping Harry from his nest in the cupboard under the stairs to his bed, yellow elephant firmly clutched in his arms, there came a knock on the door. It was late for a visitor, though they were both relieved that their guest had chosen to knock gently rather than ring the doorbell as that would undoubtably woken Harry. Petunia went to the door, with Vernon following her to the hallway, neither of them voicing their hope that their message to the bats might have worked. Neither of them entirely certain that it was anything but wishful thinking.

She opened the door, to find nothing but their dark and empty driveway. The gate was closed, and she could hear nothing but the normal sounds of the neighbourhood at night, giving no indication of if they had misheard or if it had been some teenagers playing a mischievous prank on them. She looked around, seeing nothing but the normal shadows fluttering in the light cast from their hall and the streetlamp by their gate. With a frustrated sigh she closed the door and turned round, nearly collapsing with shock as she did so.

In the middle of their hallway, standing at the foot of the stairs in silence, was a man. It was as if he had materialised out of nowhere, as if by magic. She realised, gasping for breath as she tried to recover her sense of equilibrium, hand clutching at her chest in fear, that it must be magic. Behind the dark spectre she could see Vernon’s equally shocked expression from the kitchen door. She had never met the man before her as a man, but she recognised him anyway. His features had the same quality they had had as children, the same unnaturally black hair and eyes, the same expressionless face. The most obvious clue that told her without a hint of a doubt was the cloud of bats that swirled around him almost as if they were a living cloak.

“Severus,” she gasped, her legs trembling as she tried to stand from where she had half-fallen in the porch amongst the family’s shoes, “You scared me,”

Severus didn’t answer immediately, gazing blankly at her with eyes she knew were unseeing, before saying blandly, “I thought you might prefer not to have me on your doorstep, I might draw attention,”

Petunia didn’t bother mentioning that given that their driveway wasn’t entirely visible from the road he would probably have been safe from curious eyes, especially so late at night, but she understood the reasoning. Men covered in bats were not common in Lancaster, or indeed anywhere. It was true that as children he had drawn stares for his odd appearance even when surrounded by only a minimal number of bats. Vernon was watching the two of them carefully, his eyes wide. For all that he’d known about Lily being a witch and the fact that he’d met her on a handful of occasions, he had never witnessed magic or met Severus before.

“You wanted to speak with me?” Severus continued, his voice having changed from the sing-song whisper she remembered to a hypnotically deep monotone.

“Ye…yes,” Petunia said hesitantly, considering moving past him towards the kitchen, uncomfortable in his presence. He seemed to suck the light out of the house, almost as if his arrival had plunged the whole world into darkness. The bats fluttered around him, and she could see some of them clinging to his hair and clothes, their black wriggling bodies blending seamlessly with the black of his robes.

“Come through to the living room,” she instructed him firmly, unwilling to have a serious conversation at the bottom of the stairs where there was a chance of disturbing Harry, but not wanting his ominous presence in the cozy and familiar kitchen that served as the heart of the family home.

Passively, he followed her, sitting obediently in the armchair she indicated for him. The bats, to her relief, didn’t appear to touch the furniture but rather stuck to him like a second skin. Vernon was struggling not to stare at him, and she could understand his reaction. There was a perverse sense of fascination in everything about Severus. He simply didn’t belong in their world and he never had.

Now that he was there, in front of them and in their living room, an aberration in their reality, Petunia found the words for the questions she so desperately needed to ask him wouldn’t come. Vernon, however, managed to speak up in an uncertain but determined voice.

“It’s about Harry, Lily’s son,” he said, “We wanted to know, will he be taken away to Hogwarts?”

Severus seemed to consider Vernon for a moment, his face showing no feelings or reactions. He was as impassive as he had always been, the only movement or hint of life coming from the bats that covered him.

“He will,” Severus answered dully, the monotone leaving no room for any doubt.

Petunia closed her eyes in grief at the confirmation she had been dreading, unable to stop the tears from falling. Vernon moved closer to her, sitting beside her on the sofa and drawing her close. Severus didn’t react, either to his own statement or to her reaction. Vernon wondered if that would be it, if Severus would simply leave after having answered their question, vanish in a cloud of bats much like he’d appeared, but after a few moments of Petunia’s sobbing he spoke again, this time with a faint hint of emotion in his voice. It was not enough emotion to be detectable as any one in particular, and even judging it as emotion was generous, but there was something slightly different.

“There was a prophecy,” he said, “Harry was named and marked as the one chosen. He is the one who will end the wars. He will go to Hogwarts,”

“A prophecy?” Vernon asked, lost in an uncertain and foreign world, “Are those reliable? It’s absolutely certain that it’s Harry?” He held on to the faint, feeble hope that it might not be, that magical prophecies were as unreliable as reading the horoscope in the papers, but Severus shattered his hope with his calm answer.

“I’ve heard them, all three,” he said, “For one she gripped my hand as she spoke and her words were the truth. There is no doubt, Harry is the only one who matches,” The bats around him rustled, fluttering in distress, almost as if remembering the prophecy. Petunia wasn’t certain if that was just her imagination, a strange piece of wishful thinking to give the bats a greater emotional depth than the man, but that was the impression she held on to. 

“She?” Petunia asked through her tears, her voice trembling.

“Sybil Trelawny,” Severus answered in the same calm monotone, either oblivious or uncaring of their emotional reaction to his words, “A Seer. She was my student at the time,”

“So there’s nothing for it?” Vernon asked, trying to hope despite everything, “Harry will definitely be taken to Hogwarts? He’ll… he’ll be dragged into your war…? He’s… he’s only a child…”

One again the bats rustles, this time more visibly with a few flying around the living room. Both Vernon and Petunia flinched at the sudden seeming increase in darkness in the room, the ominous threat of power, but it did not last long. The bats settled, doing no more than crawl over Severus in their apparent agitation. He gave no reply, as if he had not even registered Vernon’s question or distress, which was in itself an answer. Harry would receive his Hogwarts letter and they would have no choice but to wave goodbye to him as he was swept away by magic. Petunia felt her heart clench, the memories of Lily boarding the train assaulting her. The first time when she had still been her sister, excited for the magic that lay ahead, and the last time when she had been a complete stranger, a cruel woman eager for war. The hardest part was knowing that she was helpless. She knew, vaguely, that they couldn’t resist the authorities. She knew that if she asked, Severus would be able to tell her what happened to those that tried to leave, those that tried to keep their magical children from the magical world of Hogwarts. But she knew that she would not be able to bear him recanting emotionlessly the consequences when she knew he and his family had paid that very price.

Clutching at Vernon’s hand as though it was the only thing anchoring her in the world, Petunia said shakily, “Thank you, I understand,”

Though that signalled the end of their conversation, Severus made no move to leave. He closed his eyes briefly, eerily calm and still amongst the writhing mass of small dark bodies. When he opened them again, he seemed to have a touch of melancholy to him, though maybe that was to do with the way the living room lights lit up the bats.

“May I see him?” he asked, to Petunia’s surprise. On the one hand, she felt uncomfortable with the idea of allowing this strange man to look in on her sleeping nephew, but on the other hand she was painfully aware that if he wanted to he could easily overpower them all with little effort. That he sat still and patient, asking politely for their permission, was merely an act, a generous consideration shown towards them possibly through boredom or possibly some vague remembered kindness of their childhood together. How he would see Harry she didn’t quite understand, she never had, but she knew that through the magic he wrapped around himself and suffused with his bats he would see Harry in a way she couldn’t comprehend. She shared a quick, worried look with Vernon before she answered, knowing that it was up to her not him to accept.

“Yes, I’ll show you,” she said, “But he’s sleeping, please… don’t wake him,”

Severus rose, a fluid movement of cascading black wings, a sharp nod of affirmation almost hidden by the dark halo surrounding him. Nervous and intimidated, she hurriedly led him up the stairs towards Harry’s room. Cautiously she pushed the door, left ajar as always, so that it was fully open and allowed him to enter. The light she left off, aware that it made no difference to him. The light from the landing cast dark shadows around Severus as he seemed to expand, the bats filling the room, their small wings scattering shadows around like black magic. He was silent, and Petunia imagined there to be no expression on his face. Had there been, she would not have seen it anyway, his face hidden by the darkness of the night, the fluttering shadows he carried with him and the eternal veil of black hair.

She waited, hovering hesitantly in the doorway, afraid and uncertain, full of dread. She didn’t trust magic, she couldn’t. She didn’t believe that Severus would mean any harm to Lily’s son, she couldn’t believe it from what she had known of him. But at the same time, he belonged to another world, and Lily was long dead. She had no knowledge of where his life had taken him, where his loyalties lay, what he truly thought about anything. She never really had. He was simply the only person with magic she knew, the only one she could reach out to. All she could do was to hope that their childhood together, his loyalty to Lily, would translate to some kind of affection towards her family, though it was entirely possible that Lily’s son meant nothing to him. That he regarded her with the same disinterest she might regard a brick.

Vernon watched them both, his face concerned. He understood little of magic, letting her with her greater experience take the lead. He would no doubt have more questions, just as he had when she first tried to explain to him about Lily, but once again she knew she would never be able to truly put it all into words. She knew only the very basics, what little she had been told officially and what scraps she had gleaned from Lily and Severus. She had been too young to really understand it then, too young to stand a chance of piecing together the fractured fragments of information. Now she felt the depth of her ignorance, the way in which there was so much she simply didn’t know, could never know. 

She dreaded explaining to Dudley when the time came, that Harry would be leaving. That he might never return, and that maybe it would be better that way. She dreaded him experiencing the same devastation she had as Lily had left, had ceased to be her sister with such ease, had died. She didn’t know what the wars that consumed the wizarding world were about, she just knew that they touched everyone magical in some way. Harry had already been touched by wizarding war, been left orphaned and scarred. She had never received any closure, never been unable to discover the details of Lily and James’s deaths. 

She felt for a moment almost as if the entire world was changing, warping, but then that passed and whatever pressure she had felt left. The darkness in Harry’s room seemed to lessen, and Severus silently exited. He walked smoothly down the stairs, leaving her and Vernon scurrying in his wake. The bats trailed after him, forming a sentient cloak that billowed out as he moved. At the foot of their stairs, he turned to face them, a gesture that Petunia knew from her girlhood was entirely for their benefit not his own. To him it made no difference what direction he faced, he could both see nothing and everything whatever he did. He observed them, in ways they could not comprehend but could feel pricking at their skin, digging into their minds.

“I’ll watch over him,” he said, and Petunia felt a wave of relief wash over her. It wasn’t a lot, and the idea of being watched over by such an ominous presence was fearful, but any form of protection for Harry was better than nothing.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling, knowing that he wasn’t giving the reassurance for them, but for either Lily or Harry. Which it was she had no way of knowing, she just accepted that it was enough for her. She suspected that she would be noticing bats around the neighbourhood more often now. He could have been watching the house all this time and she would have been none the wiser, but now she would be seeing them in every shadow whether they were there or not. It was both a threat and a protection, a reminder of the perils that lurked in the future and a promise of shelter. 

“There’s nothing more?” he asked, and there was nothing that either she nor Vernon had to say. They shook their heads wordlessly, a gesture that he shouldn’t have been able to see yet at the same time clearly did.

The bats swarmed, and for a moment they lost sight of the man in the midst of them. Then, the bats seemed to dwindle in number, dissipating into nothing, leaving an empty hallway. They stood frozen, shocked by the suddenness of his departure, but at the same time deep in the back of their minds they could not be surprised that he had chosen magic over walking out of their front door.

Recovering her sense, Petunia headed towards the kitchen on autopilot to make a calming herb tea for the second time that night. She stopped as she walked through the spot where Severus had stood moments before. There was something strange about standing on the ground where magic had just been performed, where someone had vanished into thin air. She looked at the cupboard under the stairs, the door covered in the familiar pictures of animals. Dudley and Harry had used it as their den when they were young. It had been their warren when they were playing pretend during their Watership Down phase. Dudley had been Hazel, the fearless and charismatic leader who did everything he could to protect his younger brother. Harry had been Fiver, the strange runt of the litter capable of seeing the future. Petunia had let them, but their innocent choice of their roles had chilled her heart. She had forgotten it, as they had grown up and left behind that game, in part because she and Vernon had given in to their pleading for a pet rabbit. 

“Has he always been like that?” Vernon asked curiously, his voice cutting through the silence of her nostalgia to bring her back to the present. She turned her attention to him, considering Severus and his question.

“The bats?” she said, “Yes. The rest of it…?” she found herself falling down a rabbit hole of memories, thinking back to a time that felt so distant it seemed to be tinged with sepia, long before she’d ever heard the word Hogwarts.

“No,” she said heavily, “No. He used to be such a sweet child,”


	7. November 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to continue to remind you that, while there is nothing graphic, there are some unsavoury topics covered throughout this story. These themes include: rape, mass murder, terrorism, paedophilia, bestiality, cannibalism, necrophilia, incest.
> 
> Thank you for still taking time out of your day to read this, let alone those who go as far as actually commenting, it's very kind of you.

Harry had always been prone to maudlin in the autumn. The time surrounding Hallowe’en was particularly hard. The way the days grew shorter and the nights longer, coating everything in a permanent state of darkness affected some people, drawing their moods downwards. Dark thoughts seemed more natural during long, dark nights. The way the weather became more grey and gloomy, the coldness of the coming winter seeping into his very bones. Even knowing that dawn would break just as surely as spring would eventually come, couldn’t alleviate the melancholy he felt.

There was more to it, than just the weather. Autumn had its place in the seasons, just as night had its place in the day. But Hallowe’en for Harry was an anniversary, the anniversary of the night his mother had been murdered by Voldemort. The anniversary of the night he had been orphaned and left on the Dursley’s doorstep. The anniversary of the night that Voldemort had marked him, singled him out and ensured he would never lead a normal life. It was a solitary sorrow, one that no one else in the world could truly understand, though there were moments when he thought Severus must at least share his grief in some manner. He could still remember the fleeting impressions of that Hallowe’en night, the echoing words, “Stand aside you foolish girl,” filling his dreams as the nights darkened.

Of course, the whole world outside his head was indifferent and entirely ignorant of the significance the season held for him. He couldn’t blame them for that. To the wizarding world, Hallowe’en had been a night for celebration. Not only was it a night with magical significance for a great number of rites, but it was the night when Harry had been anointed and as such was a cause for celebration for many, especially those that gathered at Hogwarts. To the modern muggle world it was just a silly holiday for embracing the gothic. Skeletons and ghosts, witches and wizards, all sorts of spooky decorations were available everywhere and displayed cheerfully. Harry hated shopping in October, hated the reminder, the relief once it was over and the decorations changed was immeasurable. The magical aspect only served to heighten what he’d lost, and at the same time forcing him to face the truth. He hadn’t lost his magic, he had consciously made the decision and performed the act that not only tore away his own magic but did the same to everyone. So many, a countless number he could never bear to consider counting, were presumably buried, their bones deep beneath the earth in the spots where magic had swallowed the buildings bound by spells. It brought back the grief of the consequences of the final battle, just as much as it brought back the grief of his parents’ deaths. It brought back his grievances of the fate that had directed his life, as well as the bitter knowledge that he hadn’t truly been an innocent victim.

It was easy here, though. Much easier than it had been for a long time. The house was isolated and none of the occupants had much interest in socialising outside of the small group of survivors. No decorations had gone up. The only hint of decoration that could be mistaken for anything to do with Hallowe’en were the black paper bats that covered the walls and ceiling of Severus’s room, but they were there all year round. They were Luna’s handiwork, though Harry had no idea if she’d asked Severus if he wanted his room covered in paper bats. In a way, Harry imagined that he would simply shrug and point out in his maddeningly matter-of-fact manner that it wasn’t like he could see them. The bats hadn’t been made specifically for the room, but rather for Draco and Hermione’s wedding years ago. Harry assumed that they hadn’t at any point requested large cardboard bats to be used as confetti, but Luna had devoted a considerable amount of time and effort to cutting them out. She had poured her whole being into it, and it had seemed to bring her a degree of lucidity that had been lacking.

The wedding had been a quiet affair. Harry had been back in the country, briefly. He had attended, one of the very few guests. Neither of them had family remaining that they could invite, and the need to explain why they had no relatives was a reason that prevented them making other friends that might have been invited. As it was, neither of them had intended for it to be anything more than a simple signing of documents. That was in many ways a relief, as a more elaborate or planned wedding would presumably have struggled to include Luna’s black paper bats. Being of thin cardboard rather than confetti paper, they hadn’t drifted downwards in a particularly romantic manner. Harry had, like all the scarce guests, helped with throwing them over the couple. For any other wedding he might have thought of them as the happy couple, but it wasn’t a happy wedding. It wasn’t a sad wedding. It just was, much in the same way that Draco and Hermione just were. Afterwards, Luna had carefully scurried round carefully salvaging the bats to take home.

Harry rather liked that they had found a new home on Severus’s walls. It added atmosphere to the room. It was definitely unique, which he felt suited Severus to a T. He might look and seem far more normal now, almost human, but Harry would never be able to shake his early impressions. He knew, beneath the surface, Severus was still the same person. It had just always been buried very deep down. For many years he had hidden himself with a fluttering cloak of bats, now his oddities lay hidden behind a relaxed air of normality. It seemed to Harry that he cared now for a select few people, an increase on the sparse list it had once been, but as always he had no interest in anyone outside of that tiny circle. No one else would ever find their way into knowing him as he truly was, a secret Harry doubted he himself even knew the whole of. 

Aside from the bats, Severus’s room was sparsely decorated. He had never had much interest in his environment, and that had not changed with the years. Colour had always meant nothing to him. Everything was organised for practicality, with an element of comfort considered. From what Harry could tell, the room was more geared towards comfort than the rooms he had remembered Severus occupying in Hogwarts. The times had changed, the situation was different. They were all older and living in peace now. Each day continued as the last, time moving forward in a slow and abstract manner, days and dates blending into each other. The sun rose and set. At times Harry could almost forget that the world outside their little bubble even existed. They still had to go shopping occasionally, to buy food mostly, but even that was a rare trip into society. Ginny tended to order things online anyway, further reducing any human interaction, though Harry was becoming familiar with the various locals from whom Luna tended to acquire a wide variety of things from duck eggs to honey on her regular walks around the hills.

The whole house smelt glorious. It often did smell of something delicious or homely, rich and complex aromas drifting through the rooms and permeating the atmosphere with a calm warmth. Now that it was autumn Ginny no longer baked her cakes for the teashop in the village, so she and Severus had switched over to making soaps and shampoos seamlessly as they did every year. Those were also sold in the village shops, as well as through the small website Ginny curated. Despite the weather, Luna still went out most days. Some days she returned home soaked to the skin and shivering. When the weather was good, Harry joined the others in a walk after lunch, familiarising himself once more with the bleakly beautiful slopes of the hills and the rich scents of nature. Mostly, Harry sat in the kitchen at the table, his laptop open as Severus and Ginny mixed their herbs, spices and other ingredients. He was sensible enough to know it was best not to help. He just enjoyed the calm comfort of being in the same space as them, watching them work together. He had always enjoyed watching Severus brew potions, years ago in a time and place that seemed to be a life that belonged to another person. Ginny had sent him a number of their products over the years, whenever he’d had a permanent address, and the scents had always transported him back to better times in his mind.

So around him they had performed acts that may as well be magic to Harry, complicated recipes made by Severus’s intuition and Ginny’s precision. He’d never seen Severus measure anything, and had always assumed it to be simply one of his many magical talents, but now he was changing that assumption to the realisation that it must be an innate talent beyond magic. Now, however, he no longer handled the more dangerous or delicate ingredients, mixing instead the scents. Harry, who would always admit that in many ways he hadn’t applied himself to his studies as much as he maybe should have during his time at Hogwarts, had never been good at remembering the properties of herbs or any kind of ingredients. All he knew was that clearly some of the ingredients he had assumed to be aesthetic had some properties that transcended magic, as Severus and Ginny continued to use them to great effect. 

It was a pleasant background hum as he translated, a freelance job that he was doing at least temporarily. He had enough contacts to get work. Whether or not he would continue he didn’t know yet, merely that it was convenient. He had rather enjoyed teaching, though it had also made him marvel at times at Severus’s patience, but he wasn’t sure if it was practical here in the middle of nowhere. He also doubted he had the correct qualifications or skills for British laws. Maybe allowing himself to be secluded away from the rest of society, seeing few other people and working alone through his laptop was not ideal, but for Harry in the here and now it was acceptable. It meant at least that he could avoid any unnecessary exposure to Hallowe’en, which was difficult when teaching children. 

Once the mixing was finished, they joined him at the table, waiting first for the kettle to boil and then for the tea to brew. Almost as if summoned by the click of the kettle, Luna materialised bearing an assortment of fireworks and straw that she spilt over the table in favour of holding a delicate Studio Ghibli mug full of tea. Harry had given her the mug years ago, carefully wrapping it up and posting it to her. That it was clearly her favourite mug touched his heart and made him glad. He still made an effort to never make any sudden moves or raise his voice near her, and was always careful to give her as much space as she needed. She was relaxing into his presence more and more, though she did still prefer to keep the table between them whenever they sat down together.

Rather than Hallowe’en, it was Bonfire Night that was the focus here. For Harry it brought back old, forgotten memories of his childhood before Hogwarts. He remembered, vaguely, Uncle Vernon teaching him and Dudley very sternly about checking bonfires for hedgehogs, as well as standing in their garden wrapped in a warm coat and woolly hat as the fire licked at the crackling branches of their bonfire. He remembered the firework show at the castle, and the way that he’d hated the loud bangs so much that Petunia had carried him home early, leaving Vernon and Dudley to watch without them. He became used to loud noises and explosions during the war.

“We’re going to blow up Parliament,” Luna said cheerfully, a hoarse sing-song of a voice, fiddling with the fireworks in a way that worried Harry slightly. She was arranging them into an order that didn’t make sense to Harry, but as long as it did to Luna no one seemed to mind. 

“Yes,” Severus agreed, in a manner that Harry did not find particularly reassuring. He assumed that they were just going to set off the fireworks in the dark hillside, but a small part of him wouldn’t put it part them to be intending to actually drive down to London as part of some deadly plot. It wasn’t like they didn’t know perfectly well how to make explosives, or indeed how best to deploy them. All three of Severus, Luna and Ginny had all been erratic and unpredictable in their own way during the war. Peace had not really change that.

“We’ll burn everyone who ever hurt us,” Ginny added, taking the straw that Luna had brought in with the fireworks and twisting it in her hands. Realistically, Harry knew that most people on that list were already dead. The only person he could think of off the top of his head who had hurt them and was still available for burning was him, but he assumed that she was talking metaphorically. He closed his laptop, finally abandoning his translation for the day, preferring instead to watch Ginny twist and tie the straw, realising that she was slowly shaping rough human figures to create a vague approximation of dolls. He assumed that they were to act as human effigies, to be burnt symbolically.

His concentration had drifted long before the kitchen filled with life, so he was glad to turn away from his screen. He’d been distracting himself from his work by reading news articles, all on the same topic, which he was glad to be torn from. They were merely making him sad, though despite the sorrow and horror he still felt a need to keep reading ever more. He should be numb to death and suffering, but he wasn’t. Some days he was grateful that he could still feel. He was grateful to be surrounded by warmth and the living, even if they were all ghosts in their own way. Their bones were wrapt with still living flesh, and they continued onwards. He watched the dolls becoming more recognisable, mementos of a bitter past. In that way none of them were living for the future, caught up in the effects of their yesterdays.

“Still?” he asked her, a futile question he already knew the answer to. It was clear as it always had been, the evidence held in her hands. The faces were crude, but Harry knew as he would have known had they had no faces. Maybe had he known less he might have struggled to guess, but he had lived through her history to an extent, seeing glimpses of her life from the sidelines much as she had observed his. For a moment her expression was a hard one he had almost forgotten, and Harry was reminded that behind the rustic smiles there was a woman who had been a Death Eater. Even without seeing it, he knew that the Mark was still etched deep into her skin.

“I rebuilt myself,” she started slowly, the whole kitchen unnaturally silent to catch her quiet words, “I rebuilt myself from the shattered, mangled remains of who I used to be. Twice. Twice I picked myself up from as good as dead, twice I removed all the traces of who I had been and recreated myself in a different image. Twice I survived,”

She wasn’t looking at anyone, her eyes unfocused and staring past the effigy in her hands into a memory none of them could see. Harry knew that it was of Hogwarts, though he wasn’t sure of the exact details. As he watched her face, full of melancholy, he remembered the way she had smiled with innocent delight the first time they’d met on the train platform. But more than that, he remembered the girl he’d found in the Chamber of Secrets. He liked to forget everything he’d seen there. He’d had a few nightmares, but eventually he’d been able to put it from his mind. As a child he had never given any thought to the fact that Ginny would likely have found it harder to recover, never wanting to give any deeper consideration to the Chamber and all of it’s secrets, leaving them to rot in the bowels of the castle instead.

Now his skin crawled at the memory, resurfacing and rearing it’s ugly head with a vengeance. It had been the smell that had lingered the longest. From the moment he had managed to open the Chamber of Secrets to the moment he had finally stripped off all his clothes and bathed after escaping its confines, the stench of rotting flesh had surrounded him. The few hours he had spent trekking through the sewers to where he had found Ginny before dragging her back through them to comparative freedom had been far longer than he would ever have wanted to spend breathing in the noxious smell. He had washed himself and his hair excessively afterwards and his clothes had been burnt, which had allowed him to finally feel free of it’s lingering presence. Now, his mind already in the past, he distractedly wondered how long it had taken Ginny to finally feel clean. He wondered if she ever had. Given the way the smell had seemed to penetrate everything in his brief foray into the tangled passages, her endless days buried amongst the dead must have haunted her for longer.

She had been covered in blood and slime when he helped her from the Chamber of Secrets, pulling her naked from where he had found her, curled up in the rotting corpse of the basilisk. He had never questioned what she had eaten or drunk in her time there, deciding once again that he would rather not know for certain. It was one of the many things he had realised he preferred to remain ignorant about. If he thought hard he knew that in his heart of hearts he undoubtably knew so many of the answers, but he refrained, all the while wondering if that was a selfish decision. 

The room drifted back to a comfortable silence, broken eventually by mundane, day-to-day conversation. The memories were left in the past, still haunting their present but laid to rest for the moment. The dolls were completed and the tea drunk. Slowly night fell, the darkness creeping after the sun set the sky alight with a blood-red dying blaze. They ate a light meal in the cozy warmth of the kitchen, a warmth that was more than just the temperature. 

Together they walked up the garden, wrapped in warm clothes. Harry wore a woolly hat and a scarf. The cold often irritated his scar, so he liked to keep it protected from the chill as much as he could. Luna wore fluffy mauve earmuffs with cat ears, a present from Harry. She was probably too old in most people’s minds to wear such silly earmuffs, but Harry thought they suited her. Luna had never cared much for the opinions of society, and now that she rarely ventured out into public beyond the safety of the hills of the village there was no reason for her not to enjoy herself. 

Severus and Ginny both seemed to be unconcerned with the evening chill. Severus seemed more human now that he had before, an effect that Harry was sure was in part due to the lack of bats and in part due to the fact that he was now older. Yet he was still far from normal in many ways. The entirety of Harry’s time as his student, Severus had always worn the same clothing no matter the weather, seemingly unbothered by any change in temperature. Now he did change his clothes visibly, and as the weather had cooled he had taken to wearing jumpers. But still it seemed to affect him less than it did either Harry or Luna. Ginny he had always assumed had picked up the resistance to the weather from her lengthy time as Severus’s disciple, though he could not understand how something he had always assumed to be a magical affection had survived the loss of magic. Maybe Ginny too had always been relatively unaffected by the temperature, he had after all barely known her as a child. 

Luna lit the newspaper with matches, and Harry watched as the fire took to the branches of the bonfire, building up in orange flames. Their light and heat, flickering and crackling before his eyes, transported him briefly to the Forbidden Forest as it burnt. Luna hadn’t needed matches or kindling then. Dark shadows played across her face, cast by the bonfire as she gazed into the bright heat. The rich aroma of smoke filled Harry’s lungs, scratching at his throat and making him cough a little. They’d all smell of bonfire, their clothes and bodies needing a wash, but for that moment Harry let himself forget the bad and indulge in the good.

Maybe it was because Luna had lit the bonfire, or that it was England, Harry didn’t know, but it brought back memories that fire hadn’t inspired in him for many years. Some were of cozy nights from his childhood. Some were watching his comrades burn to cinders. He wondered what Luna was thinking as she watched the flames licking the logs, caressing their way through the fuel. Her expression seemed sad, though not explicitly so. Pensive and resigned, as if she had made peace with the fire without ever fully forgiving it.

She thew a small amount of what Harry assumed was turpentine on the flames, making them flare up hungrily, ensuring that they grew to a proper bonfire. Harry couldn’t help but flinch slightly at the suddenness, the sharp burst of fire filling his senses and for a second the trees behind the flames looked like the ones from his past rather than his present. The vibrant light of the fire glowed bright amongst the darkness of the evening, casting flickering hues of molten gold over the faces that were so dearly familiar to him. The house was isolated, far from any great metropolis, so the nights were a deep, untouched darkness. High in the sky, the stars were visible, millions of tiny sparks of light glowing in the empty blackness of the heavens above.

Those sparks were soon joined by bursts of colour as Ginny took the matches from Luna’s grip and the fireworks one by one from Severus and Harry. Harry considered offering to help set them off, but he got the impression that his current position of holding the assorted fireworks and handing them over when required was adequate enough. He and Luna watched the small show Ginny gave them, both failing to restrain the slight jump at each explosion that showered the bright lights over their heads. Severus paid no attention to the proceedings, unable to see anything, just hearing the bangs like distant gunfire. The paltry display finished, they lit sparklers, with Severus once again paying no heed. Hesitantly, Harry found himself drawing ancient runes of protection, of healing and of love in the air. They meant nothing now, with no magic to back them up. Writing the kanji or even just the words would be as effective as the long dead runes now deprived of all their former power. Throughout all the sparklers, the bonfire continued to burn, growing from a small fire to a strong blaze that exuded glorious heat.

Once the bonfire was finally built to a good height, Ginny unceremoniously tossed the two straw dolls she had made into the flames. They tumbled in amongst the burning logs, catching fire. Harry found himself watching, almost vacantly, as they fell to pieces amongst the fire, losing track of time as he gazed blankly at the symbols of his past. He wondered absently if they made and burnt the same dolls every year. He had expected more ceremony, but in a way he felt that their treatment was fitting. In life they had both put a certain emphasis on ceremony, as all magic had, so maybe to deprive them of it was Ginny’s ultimate revenge. 

A life time could have passed as he watched the flames lick their remains, though it didn’t. When he came back to himself, Severus seemed closer than he had before. Almost hidden by shadows, Ginny had an arm around Luna’s shoulder, holding her close, red hair mingling with dirty blonde. Both of them were alive, despite everything, and for a moment Harry marvelled at that. His eyes stung with the smoke, the gentle wind regularly blowing it in his face as it changed direction. They stayed there, watching the fire slowly burn itself out. They were not unmoving or silent, conversation drifting softly amongst the smokey tendrils, the waning gibbous moon sailing high above them.


	8. April 2001

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco, April 2001

The maps, with their golden lines and constant moving figures, hovered in the air. Each one showed a different section of the country, of the magically significant locations. His mind was constantly working, analysing and considering not only what it was best for him to direct tactically but what it was likely Granger would be planning. It felt at times almost as if half his mind was constantly attempting to think like Granger so that he could counter her every move. He wondered if she was doing the same, eternally running an internal simulation of what it would be like to be him. He paced, restless, his eyes always returning to the figures that filled his dreams. He assumed that Granger too slept in short shifts, almost constantly alert and controlling her army just as he controlled his. 

He had thought, at the tender age of eleven, that it was Potter he had to watch for, to monitor and always plan for, but he had since learnt his place. He knew his role now. What the leaders did was no longer his concern, except to make a note of their movements and account for them as much as possible in his ever changing plans. Minimise the damage to his side, maximise the damage to theirs. It was an eternal, never changing state of being. He took the cup of tea, silently placed where his hand most easily reached by Goyle. He was another who knew his place with certainty.

Draco sipped at the pungent liquid, long cooled to cold. The tea was bitter as always, with an unpleasant acrid aftertaste of the additional ingredients added, each one to heighten alertness and the constant prospective futures that flooded his mind. He drank it anyway, as he always did. Food and drink had no purpose other than to keep him doing his job, to ensure that he was operating at maximum potential. The herbal tea helped prevent any need for him to spare extra time eating. He had to eat, just as he had to sleep, but with the right mixtures of potions he could reduce the need with little negative impact on his mental capacity. His duty took precedence over everything else. He assumed that somewhere, in a room not dissimilar to his own base, Granger was doing something similar, thinking almost the same thoughts, only from the other point of view.

Lovegood appeared to have disappeared, which gave him cause for concern. On the one hand, any respite from her explosives was a relief, yet on the other the torturous wait plagued at his mind. He could hope that she had died, though until he had proof he couldn’t discount her. Her attacks had always been unpredictable. It could be a concerted effort to lull him, to lull all the Death Eaters, into a sense of security before striking. It could be a preparation for a greater attack, with far more firepower than she’d used before. He suspected that she was, as always, continuing her father’s work and research towards ever greater explosives. 

He had moments of hope that she might be drawn to their side, though he knew it was futile. The Lovegoods had been as firmly allied to Dumbledore as the Malfoys had been to Voldemort. It didn’t really matter what they believed, in a strange way. Draco had been raised his whole life with the expectation that he would hold a position similar to the one he had ascended to. There had never been a consideration of anything else. His training and education had all led towards it, every element taking into account what of his natural talents and personality still remained beneath his duty. And yet, with Lovegood he had had a moment of uncertainty. She had, after all, been close to Ginevra Weasley, and Ginevra had chosen Voldemort over her family. He had wondered if Lovegood might chose friendship over the sanctity of blood, or at the very least be susceptible to conversion. She would be useful, though having her dead or incapacitated in some way would also be good. Having her talents to deploy was ideal, though simply not having her blow up his side was all Draco really wanted. Right now, it all seemed too quiet. All the areas identified as vulnerable to attack were braced, but with nothing incoming it was difficult to maintain the level of vigilance required.

Draco knew that her father had been just as much a thorn in Voldemort’s side, and was infinitely grateful that he had apparently retreated into his own private world of inventions rather than continuing attacking on the front lines. His death would obviously be preferable, as his inventions still caused extreme harm and general terror, but one less bomber to think of was always a relief. The Weasley twins were still operating, though their pattern was different. They worked as a duo, with a distinct style of combined explosions, whereas the Lovegoods had always been solitary. The Death Eaters often muttered that to get one Weasley twin would get both of them, solving the whole problem neatly, but Draco wasn’t so optimistic. If one died or was imprisoned there was always a likelihood of the other waging a suicidal attack as a form of revenge, with the threat of death no longer effective. He just wanted them both dead, buried together in the same grave where they could no longer kill his soldiers or the innocents caught up in the blasts. Not that anyone with magic could be considered innocent, and those without weren’t worthy of consideration.

He flicked his eyes back to the maps, finishing the bitter tea. The Ministry was under Voldemort’s control, though it was inherently vulnerable to infiltration. For now, however, Voldemort had power. Hogwarts too, though through a different means. His father had always been a politician, and his mother a politician’s wife, both so poised and polished in everything they did. His father’s soft touch and his mother’s charming smiles had played their role in capturing the Ministry and holding it in Voldemort’s sway. His brother would no doubt follow in their father’s footsteps, but it was the tactical solutions that had called to Draco. That he had that modicum of freedom when it came to choosing his path in life was one of the benefits of being the spare, rather than the heir. So he spent his days planning other people’s deaths, choosing carefully for those under his command. He had little patience for diplomacy. He couldn’t remember now how long it had been since he’d seen his family. Time outside of the skirmishes and manoeuvres had ceased to have any true meaning to him. 

Snape controlled Hogwarts. He obeyed, as all Death Eaters did, but his hold on Hogwarts was uncontested, along with his power. With Ginevra by his side, he alone ruled the castle. Draco hadn’t seen him since he had graduated from Hogwarts, and he was perfectly happy to keep it that way. The subtle fear he had always felt for Snape had merely risen, for all that they were supposedly on the same side. Even now, he couldn’t forget that night on the Astronomy Tower, when Dumbledore’s reign had abruptly been cut short. Snape had not been challenged since then, for good reason. His dealings with Hogwarts were always through Ginevra, for which he was grateful. 

“General Malfoy,”

He frowned, still dissatisfied with the defences of the Ministry. There simply weren’t enough people to place in all the positions needed, especially given the way that Voldemort would constantly make his demands for protection. Snape too would send him short instructions that he expected to be obeyed instantly, all connected to the security of Hogwarts. The tension there was growing, even if it was subtle. Voldemort’s desire for a military presence at the school being met by Snape’s refusal to allow Death Eaters on the premises as it inhibited education. Draco could see his point, the Auror presence that Dumbledore had allowed, especially given the complex power play that had existed, had definitely been a distraction from his education. And yet at the same time, the ability to observe and study in real time had been helpful for him. It was all he had to learn, anyway. It was all any of them were expected to learn, as there was no future but the battlefield.

“General Malfoy,”

He didn’t like these lulls in action, they made him nervous. He knew Granger was planning something, and it was all up to him to figure out what it was before she could implement it, to take evasive and defensive action. He felt antsy, wanting on the one hand to attack and quash the enemy, but also worried of being drawn into a trap.

“Sir,”

Things had been going their way a lot recently, both in the way the Lovegoods seemed to have fallen off the map and the way the Death Eaters had finally managed to gain control of the majority of the strongholds of the magical world. And yet the situation was still too precarious. The balance had only recently tipped in their favour. Draco was all too aware that a slight mistake could send it all crashing back down, and his life would be forfeit along with the failure.

“Draco,” the voice finally broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the real world beyond the diagrams. He winced, his muscles agonisingly painful from the position he had been frozen in, body abandoned in favour of thought. Goyle’s hand was on his shoulder, lightly reminding him of the physical dimension, an anchor he wished he could cast off. Goyle had known him long enough to know when he was listening, when he was mentally present instead of just physically. Goyle could feel the change beneath his fingertips.

“Ginevra is here to see you,” he said, the concern spilling through the consonants and vowels, drenching Draco with secondary worry. Draco glanced again at his maps, the golden lines and symbols shining. He was reluctant to leave them, reluctant to put them from his mind for even a minute. But he knew that this was an order he could not disobey. Ginevra had been chosen and groomed by Voldemort himself, starting at such a tenderly young age, even if she had ultimately chosen Snape as her master.

He allowed himself to be guided out of his chamber, aware and ashamed of how he was presented, towards where she waited for him. He had once taken pride in being immaculately dressed, hair always clean and styled. He couldn’t even remember when he had last washed, let alone paid attention to anything concerning his appearance. His normal existence had no need for such minor vanities. His mind, his magic and his fitness were the only things that mattered. Yet Ginevra made him feel the hot flush of shame, as she was not only separated from the bubble he secluded himself in but also she could remember what he had been like, when he had still believed it possible to have a life that belonged to him. Or maybe he was overestimating his own worth, by assuming that she would notice, remember or even care. She had always been dismissive, knowing with an impressive assuredness that everyone except Snape was beneath her. But at the same time, there was no way in which he dared to keep her waiting, even for a quick spell. It was a waste of magic he could not justify, and any illusion she would no doubt see right through, merely providing more ammunition for mockery.

She wore a backless gown, as always. It was just one of the many ways that she reminded Draco of his aunt. Bellatrix too liked to ensure her Dark Mark was visible at all times, flaunting the symbol with pride. He didn’t think he had ever seen Bellatrix wear anything that covered the elaborate skeletal snake that wound it’s way across her back, just like it did across his and every other Death Eater’s. From the moment she had ceased to be a student required to wear her school uniform, Ginevra had too displayed her Dark Mark in full, making everyone wonder how long she had borne it in secret. Draco did not allow himself to wonder or question aloud. That way led to danger. He could not afford to make an enemy of Ginevra any more than he could of Bellatrix.

Like Bellatrix, Ginevra was beautiful, powerful and cruel, so it made sense to Draco that she looked in part like her. That she would have chosen to model herself after the older woman. He doubted that he was the only one who had noticed the similarities. He had noted them carefully, always being deferential to her as he was to his aunt. She might officially be just the personal assistant to the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but Draco knew she was far more. In a way, most people knew her power and position went far beyond it, the quiet assumption that no one quite dared to voice, in case of violent retribution from the old guard. 

Ever since Snape had disposed of Dumbledore, a decisive and clinical murder, Draco had known that it was just a matter of time. It had been the first step in consolidating his power, ensuring that he held total control over Hogwarts. Voldemort, for all that he might wish to present the image, was not actually immortal, and Belatrix most definitely was not either. They would be replaced, and Snape had proved to be perfectly capable of taking his time, waiting for the perfect moment. It would come, and once Snape stood in Voldemort’s place, with Ginevra by his side, Draco would continue on without protest. He had no interest in dying for Voldemort’s dictatorship. In his mind, deep down where no one would ever know, he had already accepted the inevitable regime change. It was no longer a cause for concern, his position and life would continue on, smoothly and steadily. Some days he wondered if anything would ever truly change. Whoever was in charge, whoever was ruling the roost, the war seemed like it would continue forever more, as persistent and unchangeable as the universal gravitational constant. It was a piece of the scenery, a trickling tendril stretching through history from before the Founders to a future that Draco no longer thought of. He had lost hope that anything would change, that they would ever win. Both sides were equally matched, for all that Voldemort seemed to be in control. 

Potter was still alive and out there, as far as the intelligence Draco was desperately tracking knew. He was prophesied to end everything, and no matter where anyone stood on prophecies he was still a dangerous and unpredictable enemy. Granger was a formidable opponent. Even if her army was suffering, as long as she controlled them Draco couldn’t relax. He wondered if she had already nominated her replacement, for when she died or was incapacitated. He wondered how the other side handled those matters. He had a few deputies he considered to be worthy successors, but that all hinged on whether he remained in favour, both with Voldemort and eventually with Snape. It was part of the reason he was so careful to remain in Ginevra’s good books, just as he had always done with Bellatrix.

Thus far, all of his meetings with Ginevra had been fully clothed, at least on Draco’s end. Ginevra’s clothing tended to leave little to the imagination, but she had yet to remove them in his presence. Maybe that would change once the regime changed. Maybe it was just that for now, Snape was satisfying her as Voldemort was clearly failing to do with Bellatrix. Or maybe it was just a case of different tastes and appetites. Draco just appreciated that they would talk tactics and nothing more. His mouth spoke words of practicality, no further action was required of it, she cared little for what pleasure he could provide for her. He had no need of scaldingly hot showers to scrub off every lingering trace of her essence after their meetings behind closed doors, as nothing happened that wasn’t entirely above boards. Meetings with Bellatrix always filled him with dread, knowing he would have to devote time to satisfying her before scouring himself of her, precious time that should have been spent on his duty. But maybe that was a part of his duty. His Lord had more important things to do, and his second had needs. Maybe Snape too would become distracted and more withdrawn than he already was from reality as the magic took him. Maybe then Ginevra would need to look elsewhere for her fuel and inspiration. Or maybe they were different. Draco blanked all such thoughts from his mind, a hopeless and pointless distraction.

“Goyle,” she said curtly, the name enough to dismiss him. He nodded his understanding, a bow of deference as he withdrew. Draco wondered vaguely how Ginevra felt a seeing Goyle, the way his skin was partially melted and fused, mottled and destroyed. It had been one of the Weasley twins’ many chemical weapons. Goyle had been far enough away to survive, though not far enough away to be unaffected. Draco was used to the distorted face, but he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that it was hideous. Did Ginevra feel anything at seeing the outcome of her brothers’ handiwork, or did she no longer consider them to be her brothers. She had definitely shed her last name, like a snake shedding its skin to reveal a whole new entity hidden within.

He was able to see beyond the skin that continued to rot to see the boy he had played with in the brief spell of innocence, before he had realised that their childhood games were just training exercises for the war machine. Few people bothered, though. Goyle served his purpose, but one day he would be disposed of as they all were. But he served as a walking reminder of the dangers of the varied chemicals the Weasley twins had at their disposal. Sometimes it felt like their poisons and toxins, their creative destruction, was only increasing. Or maybe it was just that Draco was witnessing it and everything that had happened had already happened a million times before, history repeating itself in a never-ending war. 

He suspected that she felt nothing, believed rightly that Goyle deserved the pain for his weakness. He had been too slow and too powerless. The entire reason for fighting the war was to eliminate those that were unworthy, leaving only those of true magical power to breed a pure society. No matter what he might give the war effort, Goyle did not meet the criteria. His breeding was adequate, it was true, but his composition was lacking. He didn’t have the capabilities to elevate him beyond the plebeian masses destined for death. It pained Draco, to acknowledge his one-time friend’s flaw. He was attached, emotionally, to the man who had been his childhood friend, and so he held on to him, keeping him in his service where another might have acted more rationally and disposed of him. Dispatched him to die in the service of their Lord. Draco accepted, his heart heavy to consider it, that one day it was likely that he would have to order his friend’s death, whether directly or indirectly. Those things were necessary. Looking at Ginevra, he felt weak as he always did, knowing without a shred of doubt that she would have no such hesitations. The only living person she cared for was Snape, everything else was pure power. Uncompromising ideals. The way it should be. 

“Malfoy,” she said, her eyes flickering to his, cold and disinterested as always. From anyone else it would have been insubordination, just a surname without a title or anything to convey respect, but from Ginevra he could give no objections. Even her use of ‘Lord’ when addressing Voldemort was rare, almost begrudging, though subtle enough that it had never become an issue. It was only Snape she now gave the honour of a title, always calling him Headmaster. Draco wondered idly if she called him that in bed, before dismissing it from his mind. It was an unwelcome image, and one that would likely get him into trouble if it was picked up on. Either that or he would be invited along, a prospect he wished to avoid.

“Ginevra,” he replied steadily, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Standing before her, he felt simultaneously both underdressed and overdressed, a combination brought about by his skin being infinitely more covered than her’s, but by a considerably less attractive outfit. He had yet to see her in anything as low cut as the styles Bellatrix preferred, but today’s number had an elegant keyhole cut into it to show not only the curve of her breasts, but providing a peep hole to the actual flesh. He had, after all, never known his aunt at the age Ginevra was now. She exuded a glamour he couldn’t feel, a sultry seductress while he felt worn and old. His uniform, practical and plain, seemed so dull and puritanical in comparison. He knew, of course, that just like Bellatrix her clothes could melt away into something more suited for battle with barely a word. He imagined that they could melt away to nothing just as easily, though he had yet to see her do so. It was a skill his aunt often demonstrated to him, her demands clear. For now Ginevra did nothing more than hint, showing the whole world tantalising glimpses while keeping her ideological allegiances displayed on her back, just as everyone knew her body and heart belonged to her Headmaster. 

“Have Mulciber removed from Hogsmeade,” she said sharply. Draco winced, though he kept the reaction as imperceptible as possible. Hogsmeade was always a thorny issue. It was close enough to Hogwarts that Snape and Ginevra could rightly consider it to be within their domain, and given the strong links it had with the school they exerted a significant amount of influence over it merely by association and proximity. However, it was outside of the castle boundaries, a village in its own right. To be flexing their muscles and making demands on the Death Eaters stationed at Hogsmeade, especially something so specific, suggested that the take over was imminent. It seemed to Draco to be a first step towards finally deposing Voldemort. 

Anyone else and he would have questioned her, asked for a reason for her demand. But Ginevra he couldn’t. It was not politically wise. Besides, he knew Mulciber’s reputation. A reason would be easy to provide, especially with the students still able to visit the village unsupervised. Positioning Mulciber so near to the children, even if they were soldiers-in-training, had always been a risky decision. The decision had been Voldemort’s, imposed on Draco. It had been another moment where he had felt trapped between two warring factions, each one subtly undermining the other and pushing their limitations almost to breaking point. As such it was also a clever request, as it meant that it could simply be taken as a safety issue, an educational issue, something unconnected to the rule of Hogwarts. Draco doubted that the safety of the students was the really concern of either Ginevra or Snape.

“In due time,” Draco said, his mind whirring to think of how best to orchestrate it. He had to ensure that it was done, or risk the wrath of both Ginevra and Snape. He knew the order would have come from Snape, Ginevra was merely the messenger, if one with power and influence that far surpassed his own. Disobeying Snape was a foolish choice, even had he wished to cling on to the tattered remains of his once all-consuming loyalty to Voldemort, and Ginevra would be only too happy to have him pay the price for that slight, he had no doubt. He also had to ensure it was done in a way that meant Voldemort would not suspect him of disloyalty and his aunt would have no reason to punish him. He knew that that was a feeble hope, as his aunt needed few reasons to punish him. Sometimes she punished him and took pleasure from his submissiveness even without a concrete reason. At least Ginevra still seemed to operate under a logic he could understand, where cause and effect existed. 

She seemed unimpressed with him, as she was with the world in general. It was not an instant answer, but she showed no signs of temper. She pursed her lips, red and sensual, more deadly than sexual. But she nodded, sparing him any retribution he might have received, clearly aware that this game was best won through careful plotting and planning. She was still more patient and more stable than his aunt. Still dressed in her slinky black dress. Still waiting, besides Snape, for the moment they would strike. A swirling mass of black bats slowly tearing the flesh from an old, giant snake that had once struck terror into mortal minds.


	9. December 2017

Harry was beyond relieved when they finally pulled into the drive of his childhood home. He had driven, a task he had not particularly enjoyed. Ginny and Luna had cheerfully sat in the back, passing over all responsibility to him. Severus had unhelpfully picked up the tattered remains of the road atlas that was shoved in the front passenger door, opened it to a random page and declared that he would not be navigating as he was blind. While Harry had grown up in the area, he had not needed to pay attention to the roads as a young child, so he was eternally grateful to the satnav for guiding them. As always, the one way system had been a nightmare, but there had been something quaintly nostalgic about it. He’d passed through the city centre plenty of times, but it had been a long time since he’d done so in a car. That was something he associated with childhood, from memories of being driven to the sports centre for swimming lessons to memories of Vernon returning from the weekly shop at the supermarket full of worn out complaints about the traffic.

They piled out of the car into the cold drizzle before being ushered into the warmth of the house, passing the threshold with no problems. Harry noticed the iron horseshoe was still nailed above the door, warding the house from malicious magic no matter that it no longer existed. He no longer felt the crawling discomfort that had grown as he’d aged, with each return from Hogwarts being greeted with a greater push from the wards. He had never told the Dursleys, and now he wondered what it was that had caused the change. Was it the case that all magic was malicious in some way, or was it that as he distanced himself from his family the wards began to see him as a stranger, a threat to the muggles within. He assumed Ginny and Severus, with their Death Eater tattoos, would have found it explicitly unpleasant while magic still lingered in the world. Even though it was not a strong ward, nothing capable of keeping anyone with power and determination out, it would still have provided a hinderance to those that wished the family ill. He had never thought to ask where Vernon and Petunia had acquired their knowledge, as it occurred to him now that it was magic theory they had been drawing on for long before he had ever understood it himself. Even without the threat of magic, Petunia still decorated the house with sprays of holly above every entrance, including the windows and fireplace, a habit that no doubt appeared to be eccentric to the general population. 

Hermione and Draco had arrived earlier, their car impressively parked in a corner of the drive that Harry hadn’t even realised it was possible to park in. The drive wasn’t designed for two cars, let alone three, just as the house was clearly bursting at the seams with people. Dudley and his partner Jess had come up by train, so while they were adding bodies to the house that was designed for considerably smaller numbers, they were at least not adding a car. They didn’t own one, living a lifestyle in an area of London that allowed them to use public transport for everything, a stark contrast to the isolation of the house Harry had spent the last few months in. Harry had needed to adjust to the lack of easy public transport, so vastly different to the rhythm of life he had grown accustomed to over the last few years. He still missed the ease of living in a bustling city, appreciating anew the convenience of infrastructure, but at the same time he liked the way in which time seemed to be irrelevant without timetables and the way the night sky looked without light pollution.

Petunia ushered them into the hallway, the carpet more threadbare than it had been when Harry was a child. The walls still had newspaper clippings of cute animals, a tradition started when Harry and Dudley had been young that had never been discontinued. The animals had changed, some of the clippings having yellowed and disintegrated, but the atmosphere was the same as the one he remembered from his childhood. 

“Ginny, Luna, you’re in your usual room,” Petunia said enveloping each of them in turn in a gentle hug, “Severus you too. Harry you’re on the floor of your old room, sorry. I gave Severus the bed,”

Harry shrugged, not minding. He hadn’t really expected anything different. He returned the hug, taking simple pleasure from it. He had spent his teenage years returning from Hogwarts to those same hugs, standing in that same hallway, but then he had not appreciated them. As the years had gone on he had cut the welcoming hugs short, shrugging them off as if they were a nuisance distracting him from what really mattered. For a moment Harry felt like he was holding something delicate and precious in his arms, a feeling that grew stronger every time the hugged him to welcome him home now that he had come full circle.

The hallways seemed too small, filled with bodies exchanging greetings, crowded and chaotic. Luggage cluttered the space, dumped hurriedly on stairs and in corners to free arms to the more pressing matter of hugs. In amongst the heaving mass of the people he cared the most for in the entire world, Harry moved from his aunt to hug his uncle, a warm embrace that reminded him of being a young child with no idea of the future the world held for him. Vernon was older now, brown hair faded to thinning grey. The moustache, a stable of his childhood that vanished during his teenage years, was back, though that too was grey. He seemed less solid, as if age had crept up slowly while Harry wasn’t looking, the arms that had once carried him up the stairs to bed seemed weaker. Harry wasn’t sure if he seemed smaller because he had so rarely hugged Vernon since the first time he left for Hogwarts, or if it was age. In many ways, it didn’t matter. Either reason hurt.

He wore glasses now, a product of age, but they didn’t hide the small scar by his right eyebrow. It was barely noticeable to pretty much anyone else, but Harry found comfort in it. That had been from before Hogwarts, before Harry even knew magic had been real. Petunia had gone away for a weekend, to visit an old school friend, leaving Vernon alone with Harry and Dudley. They’d been playing cricket in the garden. Dudley had bowled, Harry had been batting. He’d hit the ball over Vernon’s head, who’d leaned back to try to catch it. He hadn’t noticed the large plant pot behind him, which he’d tripped over dramatically crashing down heavily onto the patio, giving him the scar but also breaking several ribs. Harry had stayed with him while Dudley ran round to the neighbours to ask them to drive Vernon to the hospital. Petunia had been alarmed at the impressive black eye that she had been greeted with when she arrived back from her relaxing weekend. It had not been the last time Petunia came back from a short break away to find that Vernon had been driven to the hospital by the neighbours. Dudley and Harry had innocently joked that it must be a cruse. The adults had gone strangely quiet at that, and Petunia had never gone away for weekends again. Harry wondered now if it had really been some kind of curse, but it was too late to investigate. It no longer really mattered. 

His hug with Dudley could have gone on for an eternity, time stretching into infinity. Dudley was still bigger than him, he had always been taller and Harry had never caught up. For his early childhood he’d looked up to his older cousin, who’d repaid the favour by protecting him from as much of the world as he possibly could. He hadn’t been able to protect him from the magical world or Voldemort though, and by the point when Harry might have welcomed the thought he had long since thrown it off. Every summer when he arrived back from Hogwarts, fresh off the train his mind full of magic, Dudley would envelope him in a hug, a whole years love condensed into one gesture. Every summer Harry pushed him away sooner, barely talking to him in preference to heading to his room to read his textbooks. Every summer Harry had ignored the growing sadness on Dudley’s face, so now he let the hugs last as long as Dudley wanted, relaxing into the welcoming proof that he was loved. No matter how far he might go, he always had a home. He knew that made him lucky.

It had been through Jess, Dudley’s partner, that Harry had had a small flat to stay in for the time he spent in Hong Kong. It had been cheap and small, a commute away from the centre of the city. He’d had to learn some basic Cantonese just to get by, and then some more for his own sense of pride. Recognising the characters had made learning Japanese kanji easier, though any similarities between the two languages pretty much ended there. Sometimes he still found himself missing chickens feet, a meal he’d never expected to enjoy as much as he had. He didn’t know her well, and he realised that in some ways that was sad. He might have stayed longer with Dudley down in London had she not been around, but being unemployed and living on your cousin’s sofa was harder when your cousin had a partner. Not that she had given him the slightest impression that she would have minded, Harry knew it was all just in his mind, just as he knew Dudley would never himself make any negative comparisons between Harry’s life of erratic employment and his own steady career as a civil servant.

Greetings exchanged and bags dumped on their assigned beds, the eclectic collection of characters congregated in the living room. The Christmas tree was up, though still undecorated, shoved unceremoniously in a corner. Draco and Hermione would sleep on the sofa-bed, to be folded out at night, so their belongings were neatly piled in the corner. During Harry’s childhood they hadn’t needed as many sofas, but now that the room was filled with people he marvelled how he had ever thought it to be a big room. It seemed spacious when empty and with little furniture. Full of people talking on sofas it seemed barely able to contain them all.

The Christmas decorations were in cardboard boxes, the same old boxes they’d always been in, opened and beneath the tree. As children Harry and Dudley had decorated the tree, now he sat and watched as Luna and Vernon did it. Some of the decorations were still handmade trinkets made by him and Dudley, somehow lovingly preserved throughout the decades. Some of them were newer, though not particularly Christmassy. He saw a number of the various talismans and charms he had sent back from across the globe being hung up, pretty Korean traditional weaving taking their place next to a bell made from an egg cup by a five year old Dudley. In some ways it seemed to sum up the entire room perfectly, a strange meeting of vastly different people that shouldn’t make sense and yet somehow came together to provide a weird beauty through their difference. 

Plane tickets tended to be expensive around the Christmas holidays, and for some countries the time off was short anyway. Not everywhere celebrated it, and even then there were wide varieties. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Maybe had he been raised religious there might have been some form of conflict holding him to it, but the Dursleys had always held a family-orientated secular celebration, private and warm. Harry hadn’t been been home for Christmas since before he left for Hogwarts. He had barely noticed. He had barely been home for a long time. It was strangely nostalgic, to see the tree up and the sprigs of holly pinned to the walls. There was a sorrowful tinge to everything, a sensation of time past that would never be recovered. He had no way of knowing how long it had been a casually accepted tradition for Vernon to help Luna reach up to hang Petunia’s old bamboo angel to the top of the tree, the same way he had once helped his son and nephew. 

It was cozy, to be wrapped up warm inside the familiar old house, the curtains drawn against the miserable weather. Mince pies and mulled wine were passed around, too many cups and plates for the small coffee table really, but with some delicate manoeuvring it was just about possible. In many ways there was no need to exchange news, as while it had been a while since they had all seen each other, especially together as a group, they did communicate most days via some medium or other. Had the scores been different, both Dudley and Draco would undoubtably be talking about the Ashes, but they had both agreed to pretend they didn’t exist. Draco had expressed this mostly through the use of emoji in their WhatsApp group chat.

In amongst the idle chatter, conversations of people entirely relaxed in each other’s company, Harry found himself telling a silly story about his bike in Japan, which he’d bought cheaply second hand and consequently the brakes had been dodgy at best. That wasn’t really the point of the story, but it was the element that the others picked up on.

“All of the effort some of us put into killing you, and we could have just given you a bike with crappy brakes,” Draco complained petulantly, sighing in disgust.

“Draco!” Hermione exclaimed, partially in horror, partially in amusement, laughter breaking through her despairing expression.

“What, it’s true,” Draco pointed out, before continuing as if to provide balance, “And the effort some of us put into keeping you alive. You’d think you’d be more careful,”

“Sometimes I wonder how you two managed to get married,” Dudley commented, shaking his head. He knew that while Draco had no particular qualms anymore about reminding everyone that he had been a feared Death Eater, it didn’t mean he had any actual remaining beliefs that would match up to their ideals. Without magic, there was no real meaning to the concept. They had all changed from their roles in the war to people who gathered together for Christmas. 

“It’s because I’m perfect,” Draco answered, at the same time as Hermione said, “It’s because we don’t listen to each other,”

Draco shrugged, as if accepting that Hermione’s reason was probably more likely. Harry knew it wasn’t really either of the reasons given, more a case of that they both knew when to take each other seriously, that they had found some kind of balance in the other and could talk over whatever they needed to. At the end of the day, all he really had to know was that it was what it was, and accept it.

“Could… could we try to be positive, maybe?” Petunia asked hopefully, in a manner that suggested that she made the request most years in some shape or form. 

“It would be a very quiet Christmas indeed,” Severus commented, inhaling the spices of his mulled wine with a relaxed air. He clearly didn’t seem to hold any hopes that they would manage to be exclusively cheerful. 

“Ideally not too much sarcasm either,” Petunia continued wistfully, seemingly dreaming of a Christmas that would probably require the rewriting of their pasts.

“Think that would mean a silent Christmas,” Ginny said, poking Severus. He looked faintly wounded, an expression betrayed by the hint of a smile playing around his lips. Harry bit back a laugh, knowing that everyone would continue talking regardless, sometimes about miserable things and sometimes sarcastically.

“I want to go to Hawai’i,” Luna said thoughtfully, the desire coming out of the blue as far as Harry could tell, “Or Japan,”

Her statement, despite being softly spoken, captured everyone’s attention, quietening the volume to a whimsical, dreamy level.

“Why didn’t you say so while I lived there?” Harry asked, momentarily frustrated. He’d lived in both places for a decent amount of time. He winced slightly, guiltily, as Luna seemed to retreat inwards, curling up as if she was trying to merge with Ginny beside her.

“I want to see volcanoes,” she murmured through red hair, giving Harry a guilty look. He sighed, a feeling of hopelessness sinking into him.

“You hate enclosed spaces,” Petunia said calmly, sensibly, without judgement, “You don’t even like cars, a long-haul plane flight would be far worse sweetheart,” 

Harry wondered if she’d know when she took him in that she would end up adopting by association a strange collections of adults. He could tell from the gentle way she smiled at Luna, coaxing her back out of her shell as if she had accepted she could well spend the rest of her life needing to do so, that she had no regrets. Each of them was broken in their own way, but broken wasn’t worthless. Broken was loving repaired, rebuilt and treated with respect.

“I know,” Luna said sadly, playing with her hair, eyes downcast. She looked too young, thin fingers emerging from an oversized knitted jumper long enough to pass for a dress, a delicate bird unable to fly. 

“You’re improving,” Ginny reassured her, her eyes briefly seeming overly bright as if glistening with tears, “You did great today,”

It was true, as far as Harry could tell. Luna hadn’t enjoyed the car ride, but she had been calm throughout. He didn’t want to remember the way she had screamed decades ago, but some nights he heard it in his nightmares, when the memories of the past came to call.

“On day I’ll be able to,” Luna said, her voice as strong as it could be, a determination she had once oozed effortlessly returning briefly. She seemed almost unsure of it, unsure of the characteristic he had associated with her throughout their Hogwarts years, but she had always persevered.

“Of course you will,” Vernon said optimistically. Harry wondered if his eternal optimism had managed to survive everything against the odds, or if he had merely taken on the job of maintaining optimism in the face of all the despair those around him were prone to descending into. Luna smiled gratefully at him, soft uncertainty making her hands tremble as they tangled in her hair.

“I’ve been to some volcanoes,” Severus said, breaking the silence that threatened to become maudlin. It was almost as if it were a distraction, a topic thrown out to help hide away the problems that might otherwise be dragged to the surface.

“When?” Hermione asked, expressing the mood of the room well. There was surprise both at the revelation but also at Severus talking about his past unprompted. He had refused to answer questions before, and a lot of what Harry had discovered about him had been through research rather than from the man himself. 

“Summer holidays as a teacher. What did you think I spent my summers doing?” he replied, a hint of amusement weaving it’s way through his intonation. 

“I always kind of assumed you hung upside down in your store cupboard and hibernated until term began,” Draco said offhandedly. Severus rolled his eyes but didn’t otherwise deign to respond. He ignored the scattered laughter echoing from sofa to sofa.

“I thought you did something secret and mysterious connected to the war…” Hermione said, a more realistic assumption than Draco’s. It was what Harry had always assumed too, that every moment of Severus’s life outside of the classroom had been consumed with the war effort. Sometimes Severus would say things that suggested that to be true, but occasionally he would mention something that seemed to imply to brief fragments of a life outside of that.

Severus shook his head, “There was quite a lull, at least until you lot started Hogwarts. After that there were missions and so on. But there were whole summers before then with no orders at all so I sometimes went abroad,”

Harry knew the reason the lull had ceased once he began Hogwarts. His re-entry into the wizarding world had reignited the war. It had been then that Voldemort had started to return in earnest as well, shattering the brief illusion of peace that had captivated a few innocent souls before the world returned to its natural state of warfare.

“But you can’t have had a passport,” Dudley said, confused, “You didn’t even have a birth certificate,”

Harry knew he spoke with the long suffering and knowledgable tone of the person who had mainly dealt with all the complex paperwork they had needed following their sudden and unplanned entry into the muggle world. It had been easier for him and Hermione, as they had at least been born and raised in the muggle world so they had birth certificates to prove their existence as people. 

“Magic,” Vernon answered for Severus, knowing what the answer would be even if Harry doubted he knew the details, “Come on, do you really think he flew on a plane? Regulations have changed a lot in the last few decades, but I’m pretty confident that bats have never been permitted as carry-on,”

Harry could see he wasn’t the only one getting amusement out of the mental image of a young Severus, surrounded by his shadowy cloud of bats, being refused boarding by some very confused muggle airport staff. Severus seemed to be ignoring the faint sniggers.

“Wait, what?” Draco asked suddenly, derailing the subject, “That doesn’t make sense? I mean, those of us born in the magical world sure, we didn’t have muggle documents or anything and everything was swallowed with the Ministry, but I thought you were born in the muggle world?”

For a moment the room was quiet, a thoughtful silence falling. Severus tapped his nails against his mug, a distant expression on his face. Petunia looked at him with a strange, sympathetic and almost sad expression on her face, as if she knew a half-hidden secret that was almost on the tip of her tongue, half-forgotten and abandoned like a baby on a doorstep. Draco raised a good point, and he could see Dudley and Hermione both frowning as if they too were wondering why they had never before questioned that detail. 

“I wasn’t really. I wasn’t born in either,” Severus said slowly, before shrugging. He couldn’t see the looks the others shared, but Petunia seemed to notice them, sighing slightly. He seemed almost unconcerned, as if he was talking about a complete stranger rather than himself.

“It’s not like I can remember,” he continued calmly, sipping from his mug. Harry wondered if he was entirely unaffected by the conversation, or if conversely his lack of emotions regarding the matter was because he was still affected even without the magic lingering on to hold him in its grasp. He knew it was unfair, but a part of him was pleased that for all the closeness of the others there were still mysteries that had been left unexplored. He knew that the feelings he sometimes had of being left out, of being out of the loop were all his own fault for not having been there for a long time and in no way an indication of the way any of the others felt about him, but still it hurt at times. It didn’t stop a slight twinge of guilt from passing through him though.

“When Lily said she’d met a magical boy who lived in the forest or trees or something, we assumed she was talking about an imaginary friend,” Petunia volunteered, her eyes gazing through time to old memories, “Especially when she added the bat detail in,”

Severus laughed. There had been a time, many years ago when Harry had believed him to be incapable of such an action. Now his question, eternally unasked, was merely whether or not it was something he had hidden away or whether there had been a fundamental change brought about by the collapse of the magical world that had allowed him to begin laughing. 

“I think she was the first person I met, who wasn’t my parents,” Severus said thoughtfully, frowning slightly as if trying to recall memories that had been overwritten multiple times, searching for the faint traces of the original. The room was was so quiet Harry could almost hear their heartbeats, a silence so deep it was as if they had been enchanted. Some things were never discussed, so when they were everyone listened as if they were bewitched, as if they were afraid a slightest sound out of place might prove to be the counter spell that shattered the illusion and tore them back to reality.

“Maybe you’d have lived your life hidden away in the forests if you hadn’t,” Petunia mused, a slightly sad tone to her voice, though whether because she thought that option would have been better or worse Harry couldn’t tell.

“Maybe,” Severus acknowledged, his tone almost disinterested. His tone was always calm when talking about what he considered to be the ancient past, disconnected from the events despite them having happened to him. 

“I can’t quite remember,” Petunia started, “But I think you look like your mother,”

There could have been no one but the two of them in the world. The others in the room definitely felt as if they were worlds apart, watching a conversation based on a reality that they only had the briefest of understandings of. Petunia looked like she wanted to reach out across the distance between them to take his hand, but it was the child she had met long ago she really wanted to touch, not the man he had become. 

“Really?” Severus asked, a slightly wistful note echoing through the fibres of his being, touching his face curiously, as if trying to sense what he looked like, “I can’t remember anything of them. I can’t even remember their names, if I ever knew… The first time I heard the name Snape was at Hogwarts. I could have family even next door and I would never know… I don’t even know if Severus was the name they gave me…”


	10. February 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny and Severus in 1994

“It’s after curfew,” he said, as he had said every night. The words held little meaning, a certain ritual that they went through. Every night Ginny noted the exact moment curfew passed, always paying careful attention to the time. Once that invisible barrier between day and night was breached she relaxed, a strange conditioning that defied all logic. Every night Severus would comment on curfew having passed, though every night it would take him a different amount of time. Ginny didn’t know if it was because it took him a different amount of time each night to notice it, or if he too noticed the moment the rules changed and merely made his announcement at the point when he was finishing his evening work. It was the first step towards bed, towards the boundary that separated sleep from wakefulness, towards the true culmination of the night. 

“I’m not allowed to wander the hallways after curfew,” she said, as she did every night. It was true, a policy strictly policed by the teachers, and just as fervently disobeyed by the entire student body. She would suffer little punishment were she to venture beyond the confines of his chambers and return to Gryffindor Tower where her long-neglected bed waited. The pathway stretching between the two were more familiar to her than the rooms of the Burrow, a dotted trail on a map she had traced out again and again. A route she had walked over and over, slipping down from the richly coloured red and gold tower to the dark dungeons.

“I could write you a note,” he offered, an offer Ginny had yet to take. An offer he made every night, almost ritualistically, a pattern that repeated, seeped in disinterest. She wondered, idly, how he would react if she said yes, if she asked for a note and maybe even an escort back to her assigned bed. Probably the same way he did everything, without expression or a hint of feeling. She wondered how he would feel. She wondered if he could feel.

She shook her head, a gesture he didn’t need to see to know was there. The bats would have picked it up anyway. Even had he been able to see, he would have struggled in the dim light. Ginny had grown accustomed to it, appreciating the gloomy darkness in a way she could barely explain were she pressed, a reasoning that words could not express. She brought her own candle, one small spot of feeble light in the room. Severus had none of his own, he had no need for them. He was content to go through his life in darkness, making no attempt to appease other people in their need for light to see by. She got the impression he had few visitors anyway, that he had no desire to draw the small number that persisted into his rooms any more than he had to. 

In the small pool of light she would sit, curled up on his sofa letting the flames flicker beside her. Sometimes she did her homework, sometimes she read, sometimes she just watched him, sitting across from her in his armchair as he marked essays. He was bathed in shadows, as he always seemed to be even under full lighting. Her tiny candle couldn’t penetrate the depths of the dark that surrounded his armchair, and even had it somehow managed to battle against the odds to do more than cast a few dancing flickers of flames against the murkiness of the dungeons, the bats that surrounded him would still have kept his aura dark, a shadow that he carried everywhere wrapping him in the night regardless of the time of day. The sofa and armchair matched, not by design but through the nature of both having faded, worn down by age and disuse. In her more introspective moments, when she hugged her knees to her chest and watched the shadows of bat wings play across his profile, she wondered if they were like the furniture, matching through the wear and tear of the world that had seeped into their souls rather than through the manner of their intended designs. 

The floors were clear, as sparse as the room. Cold stone, covered in places with thick rugs. She wondered if he knew what colours they were. In amongst the dark colours faded to almost black lurked one in glorious green with a silver serpent curled around the edge. She wondered if she was the first person to see it. As far as she could tell, he had no visitors. A bookshelf stood against the wall, empty and ignored. His office was designed to intimidate, floor to ceiling covered in jars reflecting the scarce light in ways that terrified and disorientated anyone with enough sight to see them. His private quarters had no such decorations, nothing provided for the amusement or discomfort of anyone else, a casual dismissal of the world beyond the boundaries of his influence. Ginny was used to it. 

She didn’t mind the dark, despite everything. There was something honest about it, something reassuring in the way her single candle cast shadows over the rooms. The Chamber of Secrets had been dark too, but a different darkness. There had been an eerie glow everywhere, green light oozing from every surface by magic, removing all sensation of night and day. Time had no meaning there, buried deep underground like a grave, a mausoleum of memories. She had believed it would be hers, even as she had fought to survive with a strength and determinations she hadn’t realised she possessed. It was still the anger, the hatred, the bitter drive for revenge, that kept her going much as it had sustained her and kept her alive then.

She’d grown accustomed to the cold as well. All the rooms in the dungeon were cold, the air hanging in frozen stagnation, untouched by the sun above ground. There were no windows to let in the traces of a life outside, no hint of an existence beyond the solid stone walls. But Ginny found a form of comfort in it anyway, the similarities to the Chamber of Secrets only amplifying the differences. The Chamber was dead, smelt of death and decay. Severus and his rooms smelts of bats, a strange smell but one that was unapologetically alive. The bats rustled, a source of soft sound and constant movement even when Severus was still and silent. Even if there was nothing else beyond the doorway, at least she was surrounded by the living. The musky notes that lingered in the air, stifling tendrils emerging from a sarcophagus, were disrupted by the flutter of black wings and furry bodies. Sometimes she wondered if maybe it was because it reminded her of the Chamber of Secrets that she liked it, that somehow she had searched out the closest possible reflection she could find and that was why she spent her nights in Severus’s dungeon. 

With a casual flick of his fingers, Severus dismissed the essays, his marking finished. They settled in a heap on the floor, awaiting their summonings the next day. His casual disinterest in them, the lack of respect, always amused Ginny in a strange way. Sometimes her own essays would be amongst them, essays she had written perched across the room from him to take to class and hand in, to watch him mark and throw to the ground. At first he had always been silent as he marked, but now there were occasions when he would speak to her, reading aloud and mocking the answers he had received. Those moments felt like they were increasing, just as she was finding it easier to interrupt his marking to ask him questions about her homework. He always answered, no malice or anger, just a clear explanation no matter what the subject was.

He stood, a cascade of black fabric rippling and melding with bats that swirled about him, surrounding Ginny in his dark aura. She abandoned her textbooks on his sofa, the place they now spent all their time outside of class. She knew that eventually she would learn more from him than she ever could from books. There were always secrets, hidden away, too sensitive to be taught to everyone. The textbooks were limited by the laws as well as the school rules, arbitrary divisions separating out the Dark from the Light. She allowed herself to be swept along in his wake, trailing in amongst his bats, out of place with her read hair and school uniform, but at the same time feeling herself to fit in amongst their fluttering wings. She walked after him, her candle bringing the sole source of light with her. The bats around her made the shadows from its flame lurch around violently, a disorientating effect that made the world outside of their wingspans seem unreal.

As he did every night, he led her from his living room to his bedroom. That too was unlit, without a window deep underground. The floor was still stone, cold and unforgiving but also covered with faded rugs. The walls were undecorated, bare and impenetrable. His canopied bed took centre stage, bedside tables ignored on either side. Ginny placed her candle on one, the one that she thought of as hers, the one by her side of the bed. She kept her back to him, providing a fleeting impersonation of privacy though she knew there was no need. By the time she turned her head back to look at him she knew he would have seamlessly changed to his nightwear. It was done with barely a flick of his wrist, hidden amongst tiny black bodies, the clothes melting from one form to another. He performed the same spell every morning too, just in reverse.

Ginny had yet to learn it, however. She stripped off her school uniform manually, separating the clothes that did and didn’t need washing. Her socks she left on, a ward against the cold of the dungeons. From her drawer she pulled out her nightgown and wriggled into it. It always warmed her heart to think of her drawer as hers. It was where she kept her night clothing and the clothes for the next day. She liked to imagine that Severus had emptied it just for her, to give her somewhere to store her things rather than leaving them strewn around his floor or carrying them to and fro every day in her schoolbag. It made her feel wanted, it made her feel almost like she could call his bedroom home.

As far as she could tell, he never turned away from her as she changed, never bothering to perform the futile act of pretending to avert his eyes. She didn’t mind. He saw everything and nothing, always. He would see as much staring straight at her as with his eyes closed, a hand over them to shield her from his empty gaze. His bats were not something that were easy to hide from. They were everywhere, tiny spies watching as much as bats ever can watch. They lurked in dark corners in rooms, biding their time as they relayed all they observed back to their master. In that way, he never truly slept as there was always a few of them awake at any time. It made Ginny feel safe, knowing that his eyes were everywhere, always watching. While she was at Hogwarts there was nowhere beyond his scope of observation. 

In her first year she had felt a constant sense of being watched, of there being whispers just beyond her hearing. Now she was more aware of that, that there were people watching the students constantly. Not even the toilets or showers seemed to be free of the sensation of someone else being right next to her, invisible but waiting. She had always known that Dumbledore knew everything that went on in the castle, her parents had taught her that practically since birth. She wasn’t sure, if that meant he had missed Voldemort’s movements through the diary, in direct opposition to the stated fact of his omnipotence. She wasn’t sure, if that meant he had known and watched, let his enemy play with her for some devious reason. She wasn’t sure, if he knew she came every night to Severus, slept by his side. All she was sure about was that no one had stopped her, that the blanket of bats that Severus seemed to surround her with, even when he was far away, made her feel protected from the gaze of all others.

She liked the feeling of being constantly watched by his bats, knowing that they would follow her throughout her school day even if they were so well hidden no one else could tell. There were rumours, of course, started by the persistent emptiness of her assigned bed. The few glimpses of her with his bats had brought their names into contact, raising questions in the conversations of those students who most enjoyed the indulgence of gossip. Ginny ignored them. Some days, when she was feeling particularly afraid, particularly in need of a barrier between her and everything else in the world, Severus would let her keep a bat in her pocket. She had no idea if it was the same bat every time, or if it changed. All she knew was that it was patient and still, as well as a great source of comfort to be able to sit in class and stroke silky black fur as tiny ears wiggled against her palm.

Sheltered by his living, breathing cloak of bats she felt as if she was wearing armour, real armour that worked against anything. She had a defence against the cruel plots of war. She was wrapped up in a mass of fragile wings where no Basilisk could ever touch her. She’d spent her whole life learning about the necessity of doing hard things for the greater good. Seeking Severus’s protection at night was just an extension of the same philosophy, only she was acting for herself rather than the vague, weak ideals that the adults had tried to teach her.

Blowing out the candle to plunge the room into total darkness, she slipped into the bed, curling up under the plain, dark green covers. The air had been cold, a sharp chill resonating through her body, but the covers had lain in that same chill all day so they had yet to warm. Had she been alone she might have remained shivering slightly until the cold covers took some of her body heat, creating a cozy nest for sleep. She never had to wait that long, though. She felt the weight of Severus getting into the bed at the same time as she felt the bed warm instantly, a subtle flurry of magic that rippled through the sheets. 

Wriggling as she did every night, she emerged from beneath the duvet to rest her head on her pillow. She felt small, a child dwarfed and drowning in the large bed. Just a little girl wrapped up in an adult’s world. In many ways, that was what she was. Above her, bats settled in the canopy to sleep, a gentle rustling lullaby. She knew that there would be some that stayed awake too, fluttering freely around the castle, always alert. Beside her, Severus lay silent, as if he were a whole world away. For all she knew, he could be, traveling far away from where his body was kept to fly on bat wings in the minds of the bats outside. She had no such option, a little girl bound by her body to the ground, held down by heavy duvets, trapped by stone walls. 

The room was still, a mausoleum of breathing bodies. Ginny trembled slightly, a fear creeping through her bones. She swallowed, her breath becoming uneven as she tried to relax. She was normally quiet and passive, but tonight she felt that she didn’t want to be a good girl. She felt the prickling of tears in her eyes, memories passing through her mind, memories she never wanted to remember ever again but could never quite manage to forget.

“Can I…” she started, hesitant, unsure if he was even listening. The bats shifted above her. Beside her was silence. She stopped, her voice fading to nothing, swallowed by the emptiness of the uncaring world. He shifted slightly, like his bats, a gesture that gave her no indication if he was paying her any attention, if he was there or not, if he ever acknowledged her as a person.

“Can I…” she started again, her voice barely above a whisper, unintelligible to the human ear, “Can I tell you about it, sir?”

The silence gaped between then, a dark void of nothingness. She knew he might not have heard her, but at the same time she knew the bats likely would have. He might well chose to ignore it though, dismiss her faint voice as an irrelevant distraction. She could not bring herself to ask again, those words had taken all her strength, her courage was drained out.

“If it pleases you,” he answered eventually, when she had abandoned all hope for a response, a deep dark whisper in the deep dark night. She didn’t know, for sure, if it would please her. A part of her wanted to spill out all of her thoughts, to drag up all the memories she never wanted to deal with, to expose everything. A full exhumation leaving no fragment of rotten memories unexcavated. A part of her wanted to do as she did every night, just lie beside him, forever untouching, surrounded by the essence of him. He had never asked, and she appreciated it being left alone. Other people had asked, but they hadn’t wanted to know the answer, she had seen that on their faces. That much was clear, their caring words of fake kindness was just to appease themselves, reassure themselves that all was well and that they could forget about it as they pleased. She hadn’t told anyone, a secret locked deep inside of her. She wondered how much he knew, how much he guessed, how deep his assumptions went.

“He brought the Basilisk back to life,” she whispered, the words hanging in the air, mingling with slumbering bats. She wondered how they felt, at the weight of her words drawing them down, gravity sucking everything into a grave. Silence reigned, just as the Chamber of Secrets had been silent, silent as the grave. For a moment, lost in the darkness of the room she could almost smell the decaying flesh. It had surrounded her, a permanently lingering aroma. Sweet and rancid, cloying at every sense, overpowering and eternal.

But the room was full of living bodies, not a dead one. The smells were of the living, a man and his bats. The silence contained soft breathing wrapped in an impenetrable darkness, rather than her own ragged sobs echoing through the inescapable labyrinth. For a brief moment she wished that Severus would reach out and touch her, wrap her up in his arms and hold her. A moment of care from a living being, a moment of proximity without obligations. She knew he wouldn’t, and a part of her was grateful for that, the way he held her at a distance that could never be breached, ensuring there would never be a chance of his touch reminding her of the touch of the Basilisk as directed by Voldemort. She was wrapped in the covers of the bed, soft cotton overlaying the memory of smooth scales. She was within the walls of his rooms, surrounded by the trappings of his power and the watchful care of his bats. Nothing could harm her. 

And yet nothing could make her forget. There wasn’t enough water or soap in the world to wash the sensations from her skin, though she had tried. She needed to be scoured so that every last scrap of skin was scrubbed away leaving nothing but the bleeding flesh beneath. The Basilisk had been played like a puppet, a toy used for Voldemort’s pleasure, writhing around her to hold her in its rotting embrace. She had been less than a pawn, a source of entertainment to be tormented as long as he found amusement in it, always at his beck and call.

“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice trembling, “I didn’t know that they had spikes… Hooks… On… On their…”

She focused on her breathing, trying to calm it back down from the panicked gasps the memories had brought back. She kept her eyes open, to find faith that she was no longer in the Chamber but rather in Severus’s dark room. For a moment she wished the candle was still lit, so she could see him and the bats above her, draw strength from their presence. She was glad that she couldn’t though, that she never had to risk seeing his reaction, for all that she doubted there would be any. He rarely gave away any emotion, a blank mask having fallen over his face decades ago. The bats seemed to flutter, a rustling disturbance as if they were discomforted by something. Severus didn’t move, lying still underneath the covers they shared. It was comforting, in a way, a reliable routine that remained unbroken. 

In her mind reality was blurring, the memories of the Basilisk imprinted on her naked skin, covering every inch in the juices of decomposition, fetid liquid that congealed in her hair, dripping down her face, mingled with tears. She could feel the caresses from the rotting scales falling in chunks to reveal dead muscle, directed by the shadowy presence of Voldemort. Sometimes the strength was as overpowering as the stench, sometimes it was gentle like a lover, as sweet and delicate as decay. She wondered if it had had a mind, or if there was nothing left inside its brain just the festering remnants of an organ.

“It touched me…” she said, losing track of the words she wanted to say, unable to speak them, drifting away from the reality of the warm bed into the cold of the Basilisk’s embrace. 

She could feel the way the forked tongue, or what remained of it, had licked her. It had licked her lips, licked down her chest to lick her lips again, rancid saliva covering her inside and out. She could feel the press of the tail against her, the delicacy with which it had been guided to best violate her. She could feel the scraping of spines, drawing blood, leaving scars that would never heal. Hooks buried so deep they could have penetrated her soul, embedded so intimately. Catching and tearing, ripping away her sense of innocence.

She had been consumed by it, its long dead body around her and inside of her, subsuming the entire world and blotting out the Chamber. All here had been to remind her of anything beyond the physical experiences of the way it writhed with her in its coils was the whispered, mocking laughter of Voldemort that had drifted through everything. His voice had been inside of her head as much as it had been echoing through the empty corridors that lead to nowhere, his sibilants surrounding her and drowning her in their hissing caress. She shook, caught once more in the remnants of Voldemort’s enchantment for all that the spell was long broken. He had promised her that she would never be free, and his words were true. No matter what she thought she was haunted by the memories that lingered on the edge of her consciousness. 

“You survived,” Severus said softly, “You escaped,”

His words broke through her memories, bringing her back to the present. She let them fade, drawing strength. She remembered the way the Basilisk had fallen, its strings cut, when she’d destroyed the diary. She remembered the taste of raw, rotten snake, how she’d gagged as she chewed, desperate to survive. She remembered how she’d drunk blood in the dark, letting it congeal over her skin, matting her hair. She had clung on, feebly, barely alive but brimming with desperation, a spiteful need to survive. She remembered Harry, helping her to her feet and leading her to the exit, walking away from her grave back towards the living. 

“Yes,” she whispered into the dark, “I survived. I escaped,”

She wasn’t free, though. She wondered if she would ever be free. All she knew was that she wanted to be free, would stop at nothing. She had died, the girl who had been taken to the Chamber of Secrets was not the same one who had stumbled free. She had been torn down, shredded to pieces, left to decay where her flesh had fallen. In her mind her bones lay amongst the bones of the Basilisk, intertwined in death, two parts made whole. A new person had emerged, risen from the dead, resurrected inadvertently.

Above her the bats shifted. A few fluttered around the room unseen, but the soft flaps of their wings reassured her, caught in a maelstrom of small, furry, black bodies. Fragile, delicate creatures but in great numbers. Gentle, kind little things for all their ominous appearance. Beside her, just within reach but far from invading her fragile personal space, Severus lay awake.


	11. January 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 2018. A new year begins. The echoes of all those that have gone before remain.

The weather was grey and dreary, no dramatic improvement as the year had changed, an arbitrary line dividing the days into different categories. There was something sad and melancholy about it, a conflict between the optimism for the future to come and the crushing reality of business as usual, the holiday season over as everyone packed up and returned to their daily lives. Harry sat on his childhood bed in his childhood bedroom, his packing still to be done but making little effort to do so. There was no rush. A part of him was tempted to stay, not forever but for a little longer, with Vernon and Petunia. A part of him was tempted to go home with Draco and Hermione, just for a visit, seeing as he was halfway there and they could drive him. But most of him knew he would undoubtedly drive back up north to the isolated hills with Ginny, Luna and Severus.

His room hadn’t changed since he went to Hogwarts, the faded decorations and furniture still that of a little boy. The sheets were plain, designed for adults, which looked out of place for all that it was everything else in the room that was frozen in time, as if the boy who had once slept there had never grown up. He had though, just he’d never been at home long enough to update his room, leaving it an abandoned time capsule of the long dead past.

His reverie was broken by a soft knock at the open door. He turned to Hermione, leaning against the doorframe with a melancholic smile tugging at her lips. She was dressed in sensible jeans and a soft woollen jumper, casual yet neat as always, braids loosely tied back. He smiled at her as she stepped carefully into the room, walking across the floor around the mattress that had been laid out for Harry to sleep on. Severus had constantly threatened to trip over it, but he never had. Harry meant to strip the sheets and put it away in the attic, though he didn’t have to. He knew if he left it Vernon or Petunia would do it.

“It’s been nice,” Hermione said, standing by the desk that Harry had one done homework at but now hosted Petunia’s sewing machine, the light from the window being the best in the house. Harry nodded, remembering a time decades before when they had spoken of anything and everything, their hopes and dreams laid bare. Their friendship was still strong, the love that bound them still wrapped round them in a chokehold. Their Facebook messenger chat consisted solely of them sending each other Pusheen stickers, though luckily they did also communicate through other channels as well. But nothing quite compared to being able to look another person in the face, to hear their tone of voice and witness the small paralinguistic elements to their conversation. In a way sending each other Pusheen stickers had been a nice way to still hold onto a friendship without having to actually confront any of the gaping distance that had opened between them, everything left unsaid in favour of tiny reminders of each other’s existence via a smiling cartoon cat. 

“I missed you,” Harry answered honestly, watching her look out of the window into the garden below. The cricket stumps that had been there when he was younger had gone, but aside from that it was much the same. The same trees, the same lawn. Petunia’s rose garden, Vernon’s vegetable patch. 

For a brief while they were silent, lost in their own thoughts. Harry had grown to dislike January in a way. There was something pale and distant about it, as if it had been drained of all life. New Year’s Eve greeted the new year with a bang, a glorious celebration in the middle of the night. New Year’s Day and the days that followed always seemed to have a ghostly quality by comparison, a vacant emptiness. The future to come, gaping open into the distance, maybe. Or maybe it was the sense of a come down, a disappointment as after the festivities the world simply continued. Traces of parties were swept up, bottles taken to the recycling and decorations put away for another year. Everyone returned to their daily lives, the normal and mundane rhythm running through everything once more, making the short burst of a vacation from the usual grind seem even more distant, a memory that might never have actually happened. There was something of January mornings that reminded him of Scandinavia, of walking through the streets of Copenhagen, filled with the smoke of thousands of fireworks. Beautiful colours lighting up the night sky, vanished in an instant to leave nothing but the dreary grey dawn. 

“Sometimes it feels wrong,” Hermione said heavily, “That Minerva’s buried in the garden,”

“Under a rosebush, next to Bigwig,” Harry said, adding nothing positive or negative to Hermione’s statement. In many ways she was right, but it was not something that Harry had ever given much thought to. His thoughts had always lingered on other things.

“Like a pet,” Hermione sighed, looking out to the rosebush, naked with the winter.

“At least she has a grave,” Harry pointed out, discomforted. Most people they had once known and who had died had no graves, nothing to signify to the still living that they had once existed except memories that seemed to grow ever more faint and distant as time moved on, seasons washing away their traces from the synapses of the brains that remained.

“I never did know if she was aware she had once been human,” Hermione said, her breath steaming up the window before her as she rested her forehead against it, “I suppose it probably would have been better if she didn’t,”

“You took good care of her,” Harry said, feeble comfort that changed nothing much. His memories of Minerva, trapped in her cat form, were next to nonexistent. He had barely interacted with her, content to leave it all to Hermione who had been close to her, to leave the country where a cat could not possibly follow. You couldn’t travel the world with a pet, even if the pet had once been a human woman. Even if the pet did still have a human consciousness, buried deep inside her tiny skull amidst the instincts of a house cat.

“I bought her music by bands like Runrig and Capercaillie,” Hermione admitted, “I used to play them to her, thinking maybe she’d like them,”

Harry looked past her into the memories he had, of a stern old woman who had taught him Transfiguration and so much more. She’d been brave and strong, a witty retort always on the tip of her tongue. She had been strict with them all, but fair. It would have been simpler if she’d just died along with everyone else, another death to mourn along with all the others. No philosophical musings about whether she was human or cat, no concerns about how she might feel. In that way, there was a finality to death that made things simpler. You mourned and moved on, rather than hanging around waiting, always wondering whether the person you had once known was still behind those eyes or long gone, merely a body performing its bodily functions without the mind that had once made it a person. 

“Stupid really,” Hermione continued with a twisted smile, “She was just like us. A witch who lived at Hogwarts, lived and breathed magic from the age of eleven. I probably know more about muggle Scottish traditions and I learnt all I know from sodding Runrig,”

She sighed, looking at Harry sadly, “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like, had we not had magic? If it had never existed? If… I don’t know,”

“Without magic, we’d never have met,” Harry said slowly, “Without magic my parents wouldn’t have met and I’d never have been born,”

They looked at each other, thoughtful expressions neither voicing but both wondering if that might have been a better life. A better option, a better existence even if it meant not existing. 

“It doesn’t really matter,” Hermione sighed, “What happened happened and nothing can change that. Probably what always annoyed me about Sybil, the constant what ifs,”

“I just started thinking the other day, what if I had not had magic, not gone to Hogwarts,” Hermione continued after a moment, a sort of anguished despair spilling from her, “Who would I have been? What might I have become?”

She cast her eyes about, glancing at the sewing machine on the desk beside her and the grave outside, invisible to all but those who knew what to look for. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply as Harry waited, patiently letting her collect her thoughts to tell him whatever it was she chose to share. He could give her no answers as none could possibly exist, it was as she herself had effectively said, such thoughts were futile.

“I was a clever child,” she said, “I would have done well at school, got good grades. Gone to university, maybe Oxbridge. Maybe a PhD, then some stellar, high-flying career. Or maybe I’d have been drawn into some cause, some passion I never discovered. Parents…”

“You did all that,” Harry cut her off, “You got good grades, went to university. You have a PhD and a good job that none of the rest of us understand,”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded, acknowledging the truth, “Eventually. It took me longer than it would have had I just been a muggle. A set back. And who knows, maybe I would have done something different. Maybe I would have studied something else, made discoveries that would have changed the world for the better,”

She paused, before adding with a shrug, “Or worse…”

“The only qualification I have is my JLPT,” Harry pointed out with no malice or resentment, they had always had different attitudes to academic achievement, holding the prestige that came with it to different degrees of importance, “I’m still amazed by everything you have achieved. I think you’re brilliant and I’m lucky to have known you. Maybe you would have been Prime Minister had you not gone to Hogwarts, but whatever you do is incredible,”

Hermione laughed, but he could see she was blinking back tears. He didn’t like to think what his life would have looked like without Hogwarts. He didn’t like to think about which secondary school he might have gone to, whether he would have gone on to university, though he suspected Petunia could have guessed, much like she could have guessed at Lily’s path had she not been a witch. Predictions based off personality and the promise of childhood, that ceased to exist when the owl arrived bearing their Hogwarts letter.

“I know,” she said, “And I feel awful for even thinking it you know. How can I say I wish I’d never met you or Draco or anyone? And then I think, is that really alright? To be happy with the way my life turned out? To be happy with what I have, when so many people died? Is that selfish of me? Was I supposed to move on or was I supposed to live the rest of my life grieving and trying to make amends? I don’t know…” she rubbed the crease between her eyes, pent-up questions swimming around her mind as Harry listened.

“I guess Cursed Child just really rubbed me the wrong way,” she admitted, “First the books then the films, with their stupid happy ending. As if she didn’t know that everyone was dead, some lines of prose won’t fix that,”

“It was for children,” Harry pointed out reasonably, aware that Hermione didn’t particularly want to listen to reason when it came to Sybil. She never had. 

“What did you think, that she’d end with everyone dying?” he asked, realistically, “A build up only to end in painful, pointless death?”

“Why not?” Hermione replied bitterly, “We were children, you know. And that didn’t stop us from being drafted into a war, from dying and having everyone we loved die around us,”

They both fell silent, thinking. Unwilling to argue over something so minor, unwilling to really change their opinions. Unwilling to think too much least the memories of those moments, those sights take them over, consume them. Memories of watching flesh melting from bone, eyes liquidising and running down familiar faces, bones and organs spelled outside of bodies that twitched as they died.

“Cursed Child was just a continuation of that, of the time set after our happy endings as if that had ever happened, with us all happily married and with children no hint of trauma or life-changing injuries, no reflection, just business as normal evil was defeated the light won and everyone is pretty,” Hermione built up towards an angry conclusion, “And that’s it, just more what ifs. What if I had been better, would we really have been able to save the wizarding world, after all this time convincing myself that it was an impossible task and that what happened happened. Then it was all, what if somehow things had been different? What if we had defeated Voldemort and survived with magic. What if that really could have been the end to it?” he could tell that in many ways she did’t believe in any of her what ifs, but that their existence caused her distress and she just needed to vent it all away.

“What if we had been better people, more talented, more pure, I don’t know, just better… Would we be living happy little lives, sending our children to Hogwarts in peace? Or would we be sending our children to Hogwarts to continue fighting an unending war?” she sniffed and fell silent.

“I can’t see how we could have ended things differently,” Harry said, then bowed his head, “I can’t see how you can take any of the blame, it was all me,”

There were no words that she could provide to deny that, any she might have voiced would have fallen flat, crashing insincerely to the ground.

“Draco never had a problem with it,” she said after a moment, “Everything. I never really understood why, I think his brain is just structured differently. I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand him. But I can’t see why he would be happy about a story showing us, in some alternate future, where I was married to Ron…”

Hermione looked out the window, away from him, travelling in her mind through passages he couldn’t understand. Harry kept quiet, thoughtful, honoured to listen to her speak even as he knew that in many ways he could vanish away and she might continue. It felt like being back at Hogwarts, close friends who had shared their problems together, only the problems had been different then. 

“And then, I feel torn with guilt. I’ve been with Draco now for longer than I even knew Ron. I loved him but now he’s dead. What would have happened if he had survived? Would we be together, all happy families, or would we have fallen to pieces? Is it wrong to be glad for what I have, does that not also sort of mean I’m glad that Ron died so things ended up this way? I’m not glad, but at the same time it would be unfair to Draco to wish for someone else in his place. And I am happy with what I have, I can’t imagine the life she wrote for me in place of the one I have and sometimes I am perfectly content with that. But then I wonder if that is cruel, if in some way I am glad that all the people died so I could survived and marry Draco and live some kind of life that suits me…”

In the background Harry could hear the quiet noises of a house preparing to empty, chattering voices discussing practicalities and packing bags. It wouldn’t be long before it was drained of the life it contained, leaving just an ageing couple with too many spare rooms.

He wondered what was going on downstairs, hoping that things were more cheerful there. They had been when he had headed upstairs. Ginny and Vernon had been taking it in turns to dance with Luna in the living room, despite the lack of easy space. Vernon had been mostly leading her through what Harry believed to be the foxtrot, though it could really have been any ballroom dance. Ginny had been leading something that seemed to resemble something like salsa, though Harry was a little unsure. He knew next to nothing about dancing. The one thing he was pretty confident about, however, was that neither of the dances they were doing went in any way with any of the songs from Bob Dylan’s Christmas album, which was what they had been dancing to. In many ways it didn’t matter, as Luna loved being spun around and they all seemed to be having a good time.

That wasn’t to say that he wanted to be there, in amongst the chaos and cheer. He had missed Hermione, had missed the ease of their friendship that had struggled to maintain the same level of trust when they both had some much they both needed to say and couldn’t ever quite get out. Harry knew that the physical distance had been a factor, but he had needed to leave for his own sake, even if it had hurt her. She looked at him and sighed, before leaving the window. She came over to the bed, sitting down on it besides him and shrugging slightly. Her smile was sad but affectionate.

“Sometimes I miss my parents,” she admitted softly, “And there’s nothing I can do. They’re alive and well, on the other side of the world entirely oblivious that I ever existed and the worst thing is it’s all my fault. I thought I was so clever, so invincible, that I could keep them safe and just have everything seamlessly return back the way it was when I decided the time was right, once I’d managed to solve all the problems of the wozarding world and the war was over. I never even asked them,”

Harry placed his hand awkwardly on her shoulder, patting her gently. He had no real words to say to comfort her, nothing could change what had happened or how Hermione felt. All he could do was comfort her in the here and now, help her continue to move on no matter the memories that held her back. She moved closer, resting her head against his shoulder, almost a hug but not quite.

“I’ve looked them up on Facebook,” she admitted, “And they seem happy. Maybe they would have been happier if they’d never had me, never had the worries of my life at Hogwarts for those brief years? It’s like with Draco, they’ve been so utterly unaware of me for longer than I ever was their daughter. There’s no way I can ever make contact, so I know looking them up is just me torturing myself. No magic to undo my spells. No explanation that wouldn’t have me sectioned. Nothing but regrets,”

Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her for a moment.

“You did what you thought was best, to protect them because you loved them,” he said softly, knowing that he had met them once, briefly, but unable to remember their faces, knowing that nothing would really make Hermione feel better, “We all did things we thought was for the best, which we regret…”

“I know,” Hermione said, hugging him back, her voice muffled, “I know,”

For a moment there was nothing in the world but the two of them, an embrace that was not much of a hug but more of a gentle resting of bones.

“You’re the only one of us, with family left,” she said, into his shoulder, “Family that knows you and loves you…”

She seemed tired, as if there was a resentment that had been worn out, bitterly dwelled on until it wore away into nothing leaving a bad aftertaste and ugly scar. Harry felt the guilt weighing on him, as it often had. Of all of them who had survived he was the only one still with a family. The Lovegoods, Weasleys and Malfoys had died along with the wizarding world. The Grangers were alive, lost to Hermione’s carefully cast memory spell, utterly oblivious to the daughter who longed for her parents. The Snapes no one knew anything about, vanished long before Harry had been born. He had been unable to find a trace of them and now all possible records that might once have existed had been consumed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry sighed, “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry, I had something you had all lost and I walked away from it all. I am truly sorry for abandoning you,”

He was, though he also suspected that if he were to relive his life he would do the same. He had learnt how to live again when he left, had found himself as corny as it was. For so much of his life he had been brave, fighting everything that came up, always facing danger resolutely, but for the first time he had run away. He had given up, been unable to fight after the greatest battle of his life. He had surrendered to his fear and the weakness he felt with his magic ripped away.

“There was nothing you could do,” Hermione said realistically, a heavy regret entwined around her words, “Maybe it was brave of you…”

Harry paused, moving to try and look at her.

“Brave in that there was nothing you could do and you acknowledged that?” Hermione said slowly, not looking at him, “You couldn’t change anything, couldn’t make us better, couldn’t cure what was wrong. You had your own issues to deal with, and you had to put that first rather than bleeding yourself dry trying to save us when there was nothing that could be done… But you did what you had to do for yourself, I guess, and that’s important. I wanted you here, but there was nothing you could have done when I think about it now. Maybe things would have been different, maybe Draco and I wouldn’t have grown so close, maybe you and I would have argued and never spoken to each other again, it’s all a mixture of maybes,”

Harry nodded, sighing, “True. I needed space and to find a way to exist without magic. I had to figure out who I was without a prophecy dictating my life. I had to see the world I had chosen, I guess,”

He had, seen all sorts of sights that he could regret, met people sometimes only fleetingly but still touching their lives, lived and breathed a life that was constantly new. New Year’s Eve had reminded him of Japan, how had he been there he would have visited his nearest shrine as if it were an obligation. But there were no shrine visits for him in England, no throwing five yen pieces into the collection box as he prayed to gods he didn’t believe in, no buying amulets in a world without magic. There was a difference, and it was strange to think he had adjusted to one way of behaving, submitting to the cultural norms just as he had submitted to the expectations of Hogwarts. He still noted the year, felt an aching chasm of sorrow that Sirius was dead whenever he thought of the fact that it was the year of the dog, no matter how much time had passed. The reminder had brought back memories, sudden and unexpected when he thought they would no longer bother him, just as it always was with grief. Faded from the heart wrenching initial devastation to the dull ache that settled into the pit of his chest as the clock struck midnight. 

“Yeah,” Hermione accepted, “We all did things and had to work through our guilt. Still are, really. But maybe had you been here then it would have been different and who can say if that different would have been for the better or the worse?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever properly get over it,” Harry admitted, “But it feels easier now. I dream less, and they are less awful now. Faded. Like you say, it’s been a long time. Some things you never really get over, but it get easier to live with it. I don’t know if I want to forget properly, That feels wrong, to be able to live entirely free without any consequences, but I am still alive…”

“We’re alive,” Hermione agreed, “And that is something we are lucky to be. Alive, managing, could be better but could be worse. We can’t live in the past, even if we can’t ever escape from it. Each day is a new one, and most of the tomorrows are better than the yesterdays, but not all,”

She laughed a little bitterly, “I used to sit in the bath, the water cold, drinking cheap wine from the bottle screaming angry Runrig lyrics, all ‘you traded your children’s lives for a mess of gold, you beat your ploughshares into swords’, that sort of thing. Now I drink wine from wine glasses in the bath, listening to Draco murder Kendrick Lemar songs. That’s an improvement, if nothing else…”

“It does sound a bit better…” Harry mused, smiling slightly, “Though that does sound dangerously like modern music…”

Hermione had a wide variety of interests, but music had never been one of them. Very little of pop culture mattered to her, casually dismissing it all in favour of academia, science and politics. It was pretty much the way she always had been, her passions and hobbies being things that most people would consider to be too serious and too much like work to be truly fun. Even at Hogwarts, where magic had been a world-changing experience for them both, it was Hermione who had truly enjoyed writing essays and doing homework. Harry had done them out of necessity and assumed Hermione’s enthusiasm was due to the wonder of magic, but he suspected now that had Hermione been at a muggle school she would have been exactly the same, excited at the prospect of studying for tests and spending her free time learning everything she possibly could. 

“That’s all Draco,” she protested, with a smile as they slipped into a gentle teasing, grounded in the present but still haunted by the past, “My knowledge of modern music begins and ends with Long Distance: The Best of Runrig, which I suppose I bought for my cat…”


	12. March 1998

Harry ran up the steps of the Astronomy Tower, his breath in agonised gasps, each inhalation like a frozen knife piercing his throat and mutilating his lungs. It was a mistake, but he was out of options. The tower was lonely, dark and secluded. Once he left the staircase he had nowhere else to go, nothing except jumping or turning back the way he had come, neither possible options. He could feel the breeze picking up, exposed to the elements. There was no moonlight, just a gaping darkness blanketing the scene. The threat of snow lingered in the air, always looming but yet to be brought to fruition.

The siren rang throughout the school, the sound resonating and echoing within his very bones. He should be used to it, the way it seemed to strangle him, wrapped around his neck, choking him. He had no idea if it was a drill or not, if he should fear for an actual attack or not, or if it was a distraction helpfully provided. He had taken the opportunity it have given him, thoughtlessly and seamlessly reacting. He still hesitated, torn inside. Desperate, confused and cold. He coughed, the frozen air only making it worse, struggling to do something as simple as breathe. He could feel his muscles spasming, weakening and freezing up, just as the siren continued to deafen him, tearing through every fibre of his being just like the wind that only seemed to grow colder with every passing minute.

Shadows overlay shadows in the darkness as Harry fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer. He coughed more, spluttering and retching, hopelessly wishing he could clear his system. He hoped it was not fatal, somehow that seemed like it would be almost anticlimactic, lacking the clarity and drama of a clean killing. Poisons and potions had never been his strength, though he had eventually learnt how to learn from Severus. He could not identify what it was that burnt its way through his system with each passing second, freezing him form the inside. A slow death or a paralysing outcome to await a murder, he didn’t know. He could only assume it to have been fed to him in the calming tea he was given, that he unthinkingly drank, still trusting though he knew he should have known better. He cursed his own stupidity, fingers freezing against unfriendly stone.

He had been learning, slowly but surely. He should have known not to trust, but still he had trusted and without question he had drunk what he was given. His one saving grace was that he had realised in time, that the siren had provided the perfect excuse to leap up and run as if performing his drills or the heroics expected of him. It was enough to get him running out of Dumbledore’s office, even knowing that he would be charging after him. Whatever it was, it had slowed him, had addled his thinking. A part of him thought he should have run for the dungeons, but he knew there was nothing Severus could do. He had sworn over his life to Dumbledore, the details of the promise slowly laid bare before Harry. He could have cured him though, that thought trickled through his brain, he would have a counter for the poison even without knowing what it was, even if he couldn’t defend Harry directly he could still heal him. 

Harry wished he had his cloak. His invisibility cloak would be the most ideal as that would keep him hidden, but any cloak would at least keep him warm. He crawled to the edge of the Tower, away from the door, the eternal siren echoing in his head. It was as if the sound waves were inside his skull, rebounding off bone, a dull ache whenever they thudded into his poor skull. It was slicing its way through his brain, pulverising grey matter and leaving behind a mushy mess of gloop. There he curled up, feebly trying to hide himself in the alcoves provided, knowing that anyone actively searching would find him with little problem. He doubted he had the strength to cast any spells to defend himself if he were to be attacked. He spluttered out a weak warding charm, one that would buckle and collapse when struck with any kind of curse, even a basic one cast by a naive first year. There was little else he could do except wait and hope. He tried to muffle his breathing with his sleeves, protecting his airways from the cold night air, wishing he could protect his whole body. He tried to summon the magic to cast a heating charm or something to protect him from the elements but it was beyond his ability in that moment, the spell spluttering and dying before it even formed. 

He felt a wave of fear, followed by a wave of despair. He could do nothing but acknowledge that his survival likely relied entirely on blind luck, on chance and fortune. He could have no faith in that, that somehow everything would be alright. He could do nothing but hope that no one would find him, that he would recover in time and there would be no consequences to be suffered. He suspected that he would not last the night. He imagined that Dumbledore might find him soon. He wondered if it was a false alarm, set off by someone intentionally, a drill like so many others or if there really were Death Eaters roaming the school. It seemed to be going on forever, though he had no idea if that was just his perception of events. Normally the sirens would be cut off, the drills ended as abruptly as they started, though never with enough regularity for Harry to be able to put an actual time value to their length.

He wondered, as he had never thought to wonder before, if the sirens bothered Severus. If he relied on his bats for echolocation, would the sirens not disrupt that, disorientating him? They disrupted Harry’s senses, confusing and disorientating him, so with Severus both more sensitive and dependent would likely be more distressed by them. He had never seemed to react much, though. He never did react to anything as a rule, as if he’d promised away all his feelings, given up his humanity for something else.

Faintly, as if the experience belonged to a difference Harry in a parallel universe, Harry heard footsteps climbing the stairs of the Tower. They stood out against the siren, still screaming away to itself, soft footsteps n contrast to the harshness. Harry felt like he had lost all track of time, leaving him with no idea how long he had been there or the sirens had been sounding for. He could have been curled up shivering against the wall, hidden away, for years. It felt like it to him, each minute stretching into hours, each second painfully slow, as if time had stopped. As if he was being pulled through a blackhole, being stretched out of existence and yet he knew that logically time must still be continuing as it always did.

He hoped that it would be a friend of some kind, as much as anyone could have friends in a war. No one could ever truly be trusted. Even Severus, the only one he had grown to consider completely trustworthy on the one hand was completely compromised, the weak link in every situation just as he was the cornerstone on which so many people structured their strategies. Harry was one of those, relying on Severus not only to do whatever was necessary but also to guide him. Unlike virtually everyone else, Harry knew that Severus was too tightly bound to be able to fulfil his vows of loyalty. Both Dumbledore and Voldemort believed the oaths he had sworn them were absolute, but Harry knew differently. Harry knew to accept that Severus could directly oppose neither, just as he could disobey neither. Sometimes Harry wondered how total loyalty could be sworn to both, but he was waiting for that answer, accepting that it was hidden too far underneath everything else, a revelation that would come in the fulness of time. Harry just hoped he would survive to receive it.

Dumbledore had tried to sow the seeds of mistrust, by always insisting that Harry could trust Severus. He never gave any reasons, always doing it in such a way that it came across as more suspicious than had he said nothing at all. For a long time it had worked. Harry had admired Dumbledore. Dumbledore had been welcoming, benevolent. Always powerful, weaving a careful tale of the darkness that lurked beyond the castle boundaries. He had inspired Harry to fight, to struggle against the dark in the eternal battle. He had convinced Harry to believe without question, with the sole exception of the issue of Severus. There he had subtly encouraged dislike, a budding mistrust. It was easy, as there was little obvious to like or trust about Severus.

He was cold and almost inhuman. He made no effort to be nice. Harry was uncomfortable in his presence from the first time they had met, intimidated. Severus looked dark, not significantly different from the others that were so obviously evil, in many ways even more so with his constant cloud of bats surrounding him. He was a Slytherin, Head of the House that was selected for their darkness. So Harry had been obsessed with him, with finding out his dark secrets. He had investigated, dedicated hours of his life to following and observing. Never trusting, always suspecting.

And somehow through that Harry had drawn the opposite conclusion, a conclusion he was still careful to keep to himself. He had begun to feel safe knowing that wherever he went there would always be bats somewhere, even if he couldn’t see them. They followed him, just as he had followed Severus. They followed him, a hidden shadow as opposed to the dark cloak that they formed around Severus. They kept him safe, or as safe as he ever could be, knowing that Severus was always watching.

A part of him hoped that the footsteps approaching were Severus, that he would be wrapped up in the comfort of a mass of wriggling black bodies, watched over by that blank expression. The more rational part of him hoped that it was Ron or Hermione, sneaking away from their duties to help spirit him away to safety. Most of him simply hoped that whoever it was would not notice him, giving the top of the Tower nothing more than a cursory glance before heading back down to the comparative warmth of the castle. He hoped that it was not Dumbledore, not any of those that might be his enemy tracking him down to slaughter him while he was weakened and unable to defend himself. He was the one prophesied to end the wars, permanently. That made him a target for anyone who wished to profit or gain from the wars, someone to be controlled and ultimately executed before he could fulfil his destiny, unless his destiny could be ensured to benefit his benefactors.

He felt a brush of wing against his cheek, warm against the coldness of his flesh that had been so long exposed to the harshness of the elements. That was followed by cold fingers which were still warmer than Harry, tracing their way across his features gently. Harry didn’t have the strength to speak, and Severus clearly felt no need to do so. Moments later the fingers were replaced by a bezoar, pushed firmly against Harry’s lips, the smell faintly rancid.

He struggled to part his lips, cold and losing sensation, opening his mouth just wide enough to scrape a small portion off with his teeth. Weakly he sought to chew, forcing himself to swallow. Bit by bit he slowly bit off tiny pieces, forcing them down his throat. Through it all Severus remained standing uncompromisingly firm, pressing the bezoar to his mouth silently, fingers flickering over Harry’s forehead. Around them bats swirled, restless, their rustling drowned out by the siren that continued. There was nothing else in Harry’s world, time endless and his focus reduced to the effort of consuming as much of the bezoar as he could, as much of the bezoar as Severus insistently and silently demanded he forced down his throat. 

The next set of footsteps were more audible than Severus’s had been, echoing properly throughout the tower, as the siren abruptly cut off. Into the sudden silence the absence of sound seemed overwhelming and the slow footsteps seemed to ring out with a deafening volume. Severus seemed to freeze, his motions stilling. The bezoar had not finished its work, its magic was working its way through Harry’s body but was yet to fully permeate every inch of him. A chunk of it remained, which fell loosely from Severus’s fingers, landing in Harry’s lap as he drew away.

Life was starting to return to him, but too slowly to be of use. He could feel his strength at the edge of his consciousness. Given time it would return, but he didn’t have time. He was still unable to move, his voice was still frozen deep inside his chest. All he could do was watch as Dumbledore emerged from the doorway, stepping out onto the exposed top of the Tower. Cold blue eyes that saw everything roamed their way across the small space. Had Harry been alone, he doubted that Dumbledore would have missed him, huddled and hiding in the shadows. With Severus filling the area with bats the two of them were unmissable, even as the bats sought to cover Harry from his view. It was a futile attempt, though feebly Harry appreciated their efforts. He knew that Dumbledore would see through them as he always did, nothing ever could be hidden from the piercing blue. He knew too that Dumbledore would recognise Severus’s desire to protect him, easily reading the tremble in his hands as he stood firm, swirling darkness around him. They all knew it was a show, that he would be forced to obey whatever orders he received. Loyalty did not allow for disobedience. 

Harry shivered. He remembered another time when Severus had interfered, positioned himself between Harry and someone who wished him dead. He remembered the gaping cavity of Quirrell’s chest as his corpse had desiccated on the floor, drying from the inside out, blood staining everything. He remembered Quirrell’s heart, still thumping, twitching, dying, clasped in Severus’s hand, the way his nails had dug into the exposed muscle. Blood had run down his arm, dripping from the crook of his elbow onto the stone beneath his feet.

He remembered Severus taking a bite from it, tearing away with teeth that should have struggled to pierce the thick ventricle walls yet somehow managed. Blood had run from Severus’s mouth then, pouring down his chin. He had not paid it any heed, standing wide eyed surrounded by his bats. Harry remembered the way in which he had crouched down by him, a man dressed in darkness and covered in another’s blood. Harry remembered the way Severus had offered the heart, the feeble pumps growing weaker, to his lips. Harry could still remember the way it had tasted, the heat of the blood filling his senses. The sweetness and the bitterness, the tang of metal and magic. 

It had been hard to bite through the thick, raw muscle. It had twitched inside his mouth, still clinging on to life even though it was dying with no chance of survival. He had chewed, the texture revolting him and yet he persevered. It had been a struggle, difficult to manage to chew to the point where he could begin to swallow, his every thought focused on the mastication that became for that brief while the centre of his whole world. In some ways it was similar to the way in which Severus had held the bezoar to his lips, had forced him to eat for his own good. Harry had no faith that this scenario would play out the same way, that Severus would stand a chance against someone he had sworn loyalty to. He just hoped that Dumbledore would be merciful, would not chose to force Severus to perform the deed but rather keep that glory for himself. 

They three of them stayed still, as if they had been frozen in time. Harry was the only one physically incapable of the movement, but for a while it seemed like the two men before them were as well. Only the bats moved, flapping about, clinging to Severus and Harry in clear distress, aware of the tension in the moment. Slowly, as if breaking free from a curse that had held him in place, Dumbledore stepped forward, his footsteps echoing through the night, positioning himself so that he was facing both Severus and Harry, the ideal pose for striking them with a fatal curse. Severus remained where he was, a physical barrier between the other two, just as he was a commodity that until that night had been shared between the two of them. Now he was fractured, being pulled both ways. Harry knew that he likely had Severus’s heart, that given free range to chose Severus would chose him over Dumbledore, but he also knew that Severus had never been free. The choice was not Severus’s to make, it never had been and never would be. Dumbledore had had his claws in him long before Harry had even been born. 

“Stand aside you foolish boy,” Dumbledore said, irritation in his voice. Harry felt the words echo round his head, repeating again and again, distorting to a different voice that had said “stand aside you foolish girl” many years ago, long before he should have been able to remember.

No, he thought feebly, no please no. He couldn’t speak the words, still barely able to move his body. Severus seemed to be hesitating, as if he were being torn in two deep inside. Against his skin, Harry felt fragile bat wings flutter, their fur soft. They seemed to be trembling, uncertain and afraid. The only part of Severus that ever showed emotion. Harry wished that he could comfort them, could comfort Severus through stroking their tiny skulls. Instead they were trying their best to shield him, to cover him in a coating of black bodies, shuddering with anticipation.

Harry didn’t want to watch the scene playing before his eyes, didn’t want to witness another person killed defending him. He didn’t want to feel the piercing stab of betrayal if Severus stepped aside, but he didn’t want the consequences of Severus’s continued inaction. Another sacrifice as he lay helpless. He tried to move, but his body was still frozen, the muscles incapable of movement. The remains of the bezoar was still in his lap, his fingers still unable to lift it to his mouth, to swallow down the last pieces to speed up the healing that seemed to be taking forever. Poison cures always did, even the most powerful one requiring time to work their way through the bloodstream after the poison to eradicate it, just as poison took time to seep through the body. The magic of the bezoar was working, unfurling within him to combat the poison, but slowly. Once he had recovered enough to pick up the rest of the bezoar he would be able to eat it, all in one go as opposed to the feeble nibbles that had taken all his strength to swallow, further quickening the cure. He just doubted he would survive long enough to do so.

Severus stood, his stillness contrasting with the uncertain flutterings of his bats. Harry felt one snuggle down into his chest, inside his clothing. Dumbledore looked at Severus over his half moon glasses, impatience clear. Harry tried to wriggle his fingers, to find some kind of movement, even if it was just to crawl away. The life and feeling was returning, creeping through tendons that still lacked the strength to grip the small bezoar. It was almost painful how close he was to surviving and how little chance there was of that actually happening. 

Harry almost missed the spell, caught up in the stillness and the frantic desire to get the bezoar to his mouth, the sudden flash of magic originating from Severus not Dumbledore. It was Dumbledore who crumpled, fell to the ground as Severus remained standing, dark and ominous as he always had been. It was Dumbledore who died.

The only sound Harry could hear was his own breath, ragged and desperate, and then footsteps again rang out. The new footsteps were running, heading up the tower to the open door. Draco stood out against the darkness, blonde hair white against the blackness of the night, his arrival too late to alter the outcome. Behind him Harry could see McGonagall, both of them frozen as if by magic though in reality by shock. Before them Dumbledore lay, dead and nothing more. An outcome no one would have expected, a man that almost like Voldemort or Grindelward anyone might had expected to live almost forever, his power always unquestionable and yet now vanished. The only movement was the bats, never stilled and now seeming to soar freely about the sky in a way Harry had never seen them do before. Finally he felt his fingers able to pick the bezoar from his lap, fumbling clumsily, doing it almost instinctively as if driven by the innate need to survive that was wired into all creatures, his mind full of the scene before him, barely noticing as he forced down the final, disgusting pieces.

“Malfoy, help Potter back to his dormitory,” Severus said, his voice calm and without emotion, slicing through the night, as if he had not just killed Dumbledore. As if the world had not just changed. He gestured with elegant fingers towards where Harry remained, starting to feel as if he might be able to stand with assistance. Draco was staring at Dumbledore’s corpse, as if unable to see anything else in the world.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving the dead body, he shuffled past it and Severus, flinching at the bats that seemed to fill the air. He crouched by Harry, his attention distracted. He seemed to be almost cowering away from Severus, afraid to disobey. He trembled as he tried to wrap Harry’s arm around his shoulders, to provide the help that Harry needed to stand. Severus paid them no heed, his attention on McGonagall, who likewise was focused on him. Harry and Draco watched, silent and tense. Severus stepped over Dumbledore, almost as if he was not there, bringing him closer to McGonagall.

“The castle requires some cleaning, Deputy Headmistress,” Severus said as Minerva shifted back from him, “You should see that it is done,”

McGonagall stared at Dumbledore, a long gaze filled with fear. Her attention returned to Severus, a power play performing itself between her horrified gaze and his sightless one. Harry knew, vaguely, that she had always been the expected successor to the Headship, a job that she had been lightly groomed to do. He knew, from the whispered mutterings that existed everywhere in the wizarding world, that she already did the bulk of the administrative responsibilities that the job entailed, leaving Dumbledore free to focus on the war. Dumbledore lay dead and yet Severus showed her no deference, his tone dismissive and commanding. 

“Yes Headmaster Snape,” she answered after a long while, her voice meek and obedient, accepting his sudden promotion as was his right to claim the position of the one he had killed, “It will be done,”

Severus nodded, almost disinterested, sweeping casually from the Tower and down to the bowels of the castle. After him a trial of bats followed, inky black like a cloak of darkness. McGonagall brought her hand to her mouth for a few gasping breaths once he was gone from sight, before she shook herself free of emotion. She gestured to Draco and Harry, indicating them to follow him back inside. Slowly, painfully, Harry stood, allowing Draco to support his weight. Unlike Severus they shuffled round Dumbledore, his body cooling quickly in the middle of the small, exposed tower. Draco steered them to the door, fear rolling off of him in waves. Harry was still reeling, unsure how to react or how to comprehend the new world within which he now lived. Everything had changed, and yet everything was seamlessly the same, the way it always was.

The stairs were a challenge, even as Harry recovered step by step. He felt comfort at the certainty and security from the bat that remind buried within his clothing, soft against the bare skin over his heart. It was still there, still exuding an attempt at protection and comfort. After them, McGonagall followed, leaving the task of disposing Dumbledore’s corpse for later.


	13. March 2018

Harry started awake, not sure for a moment what it was that had awoken him. For a second he could have sworn he could hear sirens, that his slumber had been disturbed by an emergency alarm and the tension had all his muscles prepared to run, to move, to seek shelter. He wasn’t sure what emergency it was he was thinking back to, the drills of his teenage years of a school under siege or the sensation of being powerless in the face of nature. But there were no sirens ringing, no alarms on his phone. The ground was still, the house was quiet. He could hear the faint, regular breathing of Severus, as always giving no indication as to whether he was awake or asleep.

He wondered for a moment if it was a nightmare, one that jerked him awake without any crystal clear memory of the contents. He had had a lot of those, as if the subject matter was simply too much, too traumatic for his brain to hold on to, the memories wiped as he tore himself free from the rule of his subconscious, clawing back to reality, collapsing into the waking world with no conscious knowledge of how he got to be there, a sweaty, panting mess. But there were none of the usual symptoms, just the tremor of fear that had shot through him, raising his heart rate and making his nerves jangle. The flight or flight response activated but without a visible cause. 

It was cold, the weather outside snowy and harsh. He was grateful for the warmth of being indoors. The hot water bottle he had been clutching was cooled, no longer providing warmth. Now that he was awake he doubted he would be able to sleep again without making a new one, to provide heat for what remained of the night. He wondered again what it was that had broken his sleep so abruptly, images of trees torn down by strong winds coming to his mind.

“Ginny,” Severus said softly, is voice a quiet whisper against the darkness of the night. An answer to Harry’s question, that he hadn’t asked. A confirmation that he was awake as well, clearly able to tell whether Harry was or not by the subtle sounds, a relationship that had never gone both ways.

Like a thousand voices screaming as one before suddenly being silenced forever, he thought. A moment when magic burnt through the world and burnt itself away, consumed and vanished. A moment when he or Ginny or any of them woke, torn from disturbed sleep by nightmares that sometimes didn’t come through into the conscious world with them and sometimes they struggled to wake from, to separate the scenes their brains provided from the ones that really stood before them. But that was the Force, a moment from Star Wars for all that it caught at Harry’s memory.

He still hadn’t been to see _The Last Jedi_ , he thought, delaying himself from thinking more real thoughts. He had seen the original trilogy with Dudley as children, watching the videos on technology that was now obsolete. He’d almost missed the prequel trilogy, wrapped up in the war and the way of the magical world, only watching Dudley’s DVDs later in a fit of nostalgia for a childhood before he’d known of his destiny. He’d seen _The Force Awakens_ in Japan, with a girlfriend. They had broken up not long afterwards, nothing to do with their different tastes in films but more to do with Harry’s eternal inability to connect with other people.

In a way, he liked the security of dating those with whom there was some kind of language barrier, finding a comfort in that. As if he could fool himself into believing that the reasons for their limited communications, for why he kept so much of himself hidden away, was down to their different mother tongues as opposed to the walls he had built around himself. There was little he could do to bring those walls down, a sad truth he had accepted. There were precious few in the world who could understand the traumas that had shaped his formative years, and no one who had not been there would believe him. No matter how he might feel about passing strangers he loved briefly, they could never touch the entirety of the reality that made him him, and he could never open that world up to them as it had forever been removed from existence, untouchable and dead.

For an endless moment, that stretched out for all of eternity but might have passed in a few fleeting seconds, they lay there in silence. United but distant. The house was quiet, the only sounds that Harry could hear were soft breathing and the wind that whistled outside, as if it were the breath of a greater being, one that dwarfed their tiny, puny human breaths. But it was just the wind, the restless howling of nature. The beast from the east was nothing living, nothing dead, just something greater and rawer than those on the tract of mortality. As if the fury of nature had been stirred, provoked like a sleeping dragon that anyone with any sense should have known better than to tickle.

The poor planet, Harry thought absentmindedly, keen to be distracted from the other thoughts he could be having, used without thought by the people that inhabited it. Just like magic had been, something wild and mysterious believed to be tamed, believed to be something a person could posses and control. Outside was frozen, just as he was frozen, held fast to the bed, lying bathed in inaction. Once he had been quick to react, but he’d learnt to no longer leap up and run at the first hint of an alarm. To slow down and to think, that he was no longer in a constant state of war.

It had taken him far longer than he had imagined, to adjust back to the idea that enemies didn’t lurk around every corner. To comprehend a life at least nominally at peace. To no longer check rooms for the likelihood of assassinations or booby traps. To wake up suddenly, disturbed by a noise and to know that it was just a noise in the night. The things that went bump in the night no longer went bump in the night or at any time of day, sucked out of existence like wisps of smoke, vanished to nothing. Just as there were no longer those that would call themselves his enemy in the same way they once had. 

He had wondered sometimes if more had survived, would they have wished for revenge, but then he considered those he knew that were left. Draco had been his enemy for so long, but had focused on rebuilding what little remained of his life. Ginny and Luna could have easily have switched to viewing him as an enemy, none of their allegiances ever truly being clear cut in the first place, but they too had sought to resurrect themselves rather than seeking revenge that would bring back nothing. 

Severus shifted, a fluid movement that Harry almost wanted to see as a cascade of black, clothing melding with bats, but was nothing of the sort anymore. It was still full of grace, the movement sure, lit by the faint light of the moon filtering its way through the windows, still without curtains. But there were no more bats surrounding him, the only traces of that the paper ones that were no more than vague shapes on the wall and the bats that roosted in the eaves outside, that they had worried about when the weather turned so unusually cold. Just a normal man, blind and ageing, slipping from bed. Harry lay there for a moment, watching the vague shapes of Severus wrapping himself in a dressing gown, slipping on his slippers, before he too moved.

The air beyond the comfort of the covers was cold, the chill sharp and unforgiving, so Harry likewise wrapped himself in a dressing gown. His had spent the night up until that point on the floor, as it always did when he visited Severus late at night, not wishing to give it a home that would indicate permanence or routine, that would mark the room as shared or in any way claim it from belonging solely to Severus. Harry didn’t want to take that kind of step. He didn’t want to claim anything from Severus, to encroach any more than he already had done. He knew that it was a useless conversation to have, that he would be met with no resistance should he raise his concerns, so he kept them locked up inside for some time in the future when he felt that he had sorted out the exact words to use, always knowing that it was futile. 

Like a ghost or a shadow Harry followed Severus, just like a stream of bats had once followed him everywhere. Just like those bats had, more often than not, been lurking wherever Harry went, always observing, always following. The house was silent, the carpets muffling their footsteps which were quiet anyway. They had both learnt to walk with little sound, to mask the noise caused by their passage through time and space. A habit ingrained, far longer and surer for Severus than for Harry, yet one that they had never unlearnt. It was something Harry had found people sometimes commented on, the way he would take them by surprise, appearing behind them with no warning, but he had never felt the need to relearn how to walk like a normal person. If anything, the security in knowing that he could always sneak away, vanishing into the shadows silently as if he had wrapped himself in an invisibility cloak was a security blanket he was unwilling to part from.

A skill that theoretically neither of them should need anymore, now that they no longer needed to creep around behind enemy lines, hiding from those that meant them harm. Just as they no longer needed to listen out for footsteps and sounds of enemies approaching, always alert. Always vigilant. And yet it could be hard to unlearn such things, they would linger and without a strong, concrete reason to put in the effort sometimes they would leave them be. Severus had no need to adapt to be more normal, he lived with Ginny and Luna, isolated in a way from the rest of the world, a small cocoon of understanding. Harry liked the sense of freedom it had always given him whenever he went, as if he could at any time pack his bags and walk away, silent like a ghost, unnoticed until the morning when his bed would be discovered, empty with no traces to show he had even existed in the first place. He had never actually done that, but he had thought it a few times, finding comfort in the fantasy when the strain of being a person become too much and he wanted to fade back to being nothing, to being a weapon, to being invisible. 

They didn’t make it far through the dark house. Maybe had it been Harry leading the way, he would have switched some lights on, but Severus never bothered with such things. He knew the house without sight anyway, he had to. Ginny and Luna hadn’t switched on the lights either, when they met them at the foot of the stairs, coming down to Severus as he was about to head up to them. Meeting in the middle, all four up and out of bed, shivering in the cold night air. Sneaking around after curfew, only they were all adults who could come and go as they pleased. Ginny and Luna wore slippers, like Harry and Severus, but no dressing gowns. Wild red hair clashed with the red of the Gryffindor nightshirt Ginny wore, a cheap purchase from Primark that had made for a silly Christmas present. 

Without words, Ginny reached down from the bottom step she was stood on to hug Severus still standing at the foot of the stairs, burying herself in the embrace. He stroked her hair, strange shadowy movements in the dark that Harry could only just see. Behind her, up another step, Luna stood ghostly pale, her old-fashioned white nightgown merely heightening the impression and reminding Harry of a time when he had wandered the corridors of Hogwarts where the ghosts too had roamed. Those too had vanished with magic, swept away as what tied them to the world was ruptured. Or maybe they were still there, just the ability to see them, to hear them, to have any interaction with them was what had been removed, leaving them lingering beyond the human comprehension. Harry didn’t know the answer, all he really knew was that there was no way to know any answer to so many of those questions. There was nothing except half hearted theories and eternal questions that only led to more questions.

Time stood still, frozen by the cold as Harry and Luna both waited. Harry coughed slightly, the cold air not helping his cold, the misery of the virus having settled into his chest some days before. Outside the wind was audible, rattling the trees and behaving as if it was still the very depths of winter rather than the beginnings of spring. Luna didn’t smile at him, though she did look at him. Her expression was hard to make out in the dark, distorted by the blur of shadows, but it was on the spectrum of a smile in Harry’s opinion. 

Severus turned, an arm still round Ginny’s shoulder, to head back to his bedroom. Ginny reached behind her, fingers searching for Luna’s hand to lead her along as well. Harry let them pass by him, unsure and awkward for a moment, until Luna’s cold fingers tugged at his sleeve. She let go quickly, unwilling to hold his hand or sustain the contact, but still Harry followed after her into the room he had woken in what could have been minutes or hours earlier. Harry paused in the doorway, watching as the other three disappeared under the covers, shivering. Even just with three the bed would be full, leaving little space. Adding a fourth might not be possible, but Luna’s eyes seemed to find his again in the dark. Ginny was curled up, hiding her face from the world, Severus and Luna either side of her. Severus’s focus was on her, whispered words that Harry couldn’t hear except for the lilting tone of his voice, words merging into an incomprehensible murmur.

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t for the shy invitation that Luna seemed to be giving him, bashful encouragement from beneath the covers. Cautiously, he drew the door to, stepping across the room to where he had been sleeping. Severus shifted slightly, moving further towards the middle, a move that would push Luna further towards the edge of the bed, but made a small amount of room for Harry to clamber in. He did so, for the first time unable to help but touch Severus as there was no longer the space to keep themselves separate. His eyes once again found Luna’s, across the bed, and they shared a moment of something that Harry couldn’t quite put into words but that warmed his heart slightly.

When morning came, none of them had slept particularly well, the bed being too cramped but no one being quite willing to be the one to admit defeat and head for any one of the other beds that lay empty. Probably the only one who was least concerned about sleeping alone was Severus, the one of them who was most in demand. Harry knew that Luna, like him, disliked sleeping alone and that she wouldn’t be able to sleep alone in the bed she usually shared with Ginny. Ginny wanted Luna, but she also wanted the comfort that she had found as a student of Hogwarts, creeping into Severus’s bed in the same way that Harry too had sometimes done.

Harry woke earlier than he would have liked, having slept less than he would have liked, but accepting of that fact. He was sure without having to ask that the others felt the same. The central heating was better than nothing, but still the kitchen was colder than Harry would have liked. He coughed, miserably. His throat was raw, the chill penetrating him to the bone, far more sensitive for being ill. There was little of his voice left, just a hoarse, rasping croak. Not dissimilar to the cracking, whisper that Luna spoke in, only his was because of losing his voice to a cold, a impermanent irritation that would heal with a bit of time. He knew that she could use a bit of sign language, though not fluently. It was hindered no doubt by the fact that she lived with Severus, who could never see anything she signed or gestured. He had very good hearing though, far better than the average as far as Harry could tell, and definitely far better than might be expected for a man of his age. It was little strain for him to pick up Luna’s whispers. 

In some ways it was just like how he knew that Severus could read braille, to an extent. He just didn’t like to. Maybe it would have been different had he learnt as a child, but he hadn’t. Harry had never really questioned how exactly it was that Severus had read their essays at school, merely accepting that magically it didn’t matter whether or not Severus was blind. He read them somehow and that was all that really mattered. It seemed a bit late to ask. All Harry knew was that Severus hated to read, though whether that was because of the fact that it had always been a hassle for him, something more complicated that simply opening a book and glancing at it or whether it was just the way he would feel regardless, Harry had no way of knowing.

Throughout school he had set them essays, a requirement of the job that Harry imagined he had hated. He had never expressed that fact in as many words, just as he had never clarified his exact feelings on the act of reading, but in some ways he didn’t need to. Harry could tell. It was a job he had not chosen, and a job he had been unable to leave. A job that had kept him captive in a school he held no love for. And so, when they were students, Hermione would always write long, complicated essays, far more than she needed to. And she would always complain about the harsh marking she would receive. Harry often wondered if it ever occurred to her that Severus had simply hated to read such long essays, had bound the entire process to be boring and tedious. 

Harry had found himself wishing more times than he could count that he still had access to magic so that he could open up Petunia’s mind and rifle through her memories, seeing Severus as the young boy she had first met. The boy who lived in the woods, away from people, hiding with his parents. He knew that Severus would have allowed him to, had he asked back while it was still possible, but he had never thought to until afterwards. The war had occupied too much of his thoughts, driving out all curiosities of life from his mind. In some ways he was glad, as while he knew that Severus would have opened up his mind to him without protest but now he felt that would have bordered on immoral. The morality of everything connected to Severus preyed on his mind, a constant stress that he could have no true guidance for. Incapable of acting like they were just two normal people, because they weren’t, but at the same time finding the weight of the responsibility to at times be overwhelming.

“Can’t deal with our locally sourced germs,” Luna whispered with a faint smile. Ginny and Severus were serious, quietly sipping their tea, lost in thought. It didn’t promise much for the day, if they continued to be silent, as neither Luna nor Harry could speak much, a weak croaking, and they both didn’t talk a huge amount to each other. But for some reason, Luna seemed to be more relaxed than she often was, as if maybe having slept in the same bed as Harry, separated by Ginny and Severus, a tight squeeze that left the two on the edge getting the chill of the air outside the duvet, had connected the two of them briefly. So Harry smiled, before coughing a hacking, miserable cough.

“Organic,” Luna continued, making Harry laugh, which only made him cough more, “Free range…”

He did feel as if the local germs had a particular grudge against him. He had never really spent much time in Britain since being a child, in a way. He had been a teenager and a young adult in Britain it was true, but always cocooned away in the magical world, rarely interacting with the muggles that made up the bulk of the population. Isolated from the cold viruses that spread throughout the population. He would admit that it would make sense that he had a limited immunity to the common cold of the region, as he’d never been truly exposed to it before. It was a better thought to have than to wonder what it was that had disturbed Ginny the night before. He had no idea if she would say, provide a blow by blow account of a nightmare or mention a vague summary. He didn’t ’t even know if she knew what it was that had upset her, if it was a hidden dream that remained in her subconscious, nothing but the dark tendrils stretching through into the waking world. 

“It was just so normal to us,” Ginny said, her voice quiet and mostly directed towards her tea. Harry suspected that it was lukewarm at best, and that it would be a good idea for someone to put the kettle on for a fresh pot. He suspected it would have to be him. It was a general statement, unhelpful and yet also encompassing everything in its scope. 

“The idea that our parents would see us off, wave goodbye at the train station with no idea as to whether or not we would ever come back,” she continued, her eyes still on the tea that remained in her mug, “School was dangerous, just like life. Anyone could be an enemy and almost everyone was in their own way. Hogwarts was a school, but it was also Dumbledore’s stronghold and the training base for his army. It was just natural that people would attack. If you were lucky you survived all seven years, to join the actual war, where you would eventually die. That was just the way things were, the only life we ever knew. My parents and my grandparents all were raised that way…”

No one else added anything, letting her think out loud. There wasn’t much to say. Harry stood to put the kettle on, moving as quietly and as surreptitiously as he could, not wanting to disturb her. If she noticed his movements, she didn’t react, staying where she was, hands still clasped around cooling tea. Luna rested her head gently on Ginny’s shoulder, her thin arm snaking through Ginny’s to link them together. She sighed slightly. The familiar motion of making tea kept Harry in the moment, kept him from letting his thoughts dwell in the past. He didn’t want to think about the relentless drills in preparation for Death Eater attacks, no more than he wanted to think about the actual attacks. Once he started thinking of them, of the students that died every year, it would be harder to stop his thoughts from spiralling to all the deaths that he had witnessed in some manner, deaths that sometimes he had caused. 

Thoughts that were always harder in winter, when it was dark and cold, though it should no longer be winter. It was spring, though it felt like it would never come, losing a battle against winter that would doom them to an eternity of cold darkness, of gloomy misery. The weather was warming up, just slowly and with regular returns to the frigidity that belonged to winter. Bad weather and an influx of snow had made Harry feel as if they were the only people in the world, a few strange individuals living alone in a small house on a hill. But they weren’t. And yet at the same time, they almost were.

The world was full of people, all kinds of people with different lives and different experiences. Different thoughts and different feelings. Different hopes and different dreams. Different pasts and different traumas. Harry loved them all, in a way, all the various people he had met throughout his life. Each one of them different, and each one of them different from him. He had wanted for a long time to forget his past, to forget the hopes and dreams that had once guided his life, and to focus on living each day as it came. Reconstructing himself into a new person. But there was also a peace that came from being able to be surrounded by the precious few people in the world who had lived through some of the same things he had, who understood the shadows of his past without having to speak of it.


	14. January 2007

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione (and Draco) in January 2007

Hermione returned home to a flat that was in darkness. She felt a moment of fear, stepping through a familiar doorway into a familiar hallway that seemed too quiet and empty. It seemed too dark. It wasn’t supposed to be fully lit, as that would be a waste of energy, pushing the electricity bill up and furthering the destruction of the planet, but the entire flat was not supposed to be covered in that thick darkness. She was expecting a glow of light from the kitchen, the sounds of life to a background soundtrack of music. But there was nothing, a desolated vacancy echoing through the lack of what should have greeted her.

She felt a cramping in her stomach, of terror piqued by the memory that was still built into her muscles even if the range of actions available was limited by her lack of magic. Or maybe it was just the usual and occasional cramping that lingered on, the aftereffects of a poison that had been designed to kill her and had nearly succeeded. She had survived, but it had left her digestive system in need of constant, careful attention with regards to her diet. She had survived a lot of things. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if that had been a good thing, but it was what it was. She slipped her shoes off, stepping onto the beige carpet, the colour hidden but still she knew it. The door she closed behind her, locking it quietly. She breathed slowly, calmly. Afraid, but unwilling to consider what she was afraid of.

After so long she doubted there was anyone left alive who might seek revenge on her, who might have crept into the flat to lie in wait. And if they had, then that wasn’t the real thing that filled her with horror, it was a twisting, coiling worry for Draco, who should be filling the small flat with life. Who she had come to rely on to be there when she returned after a hard day of worrying over calculations and second-guessing herself. The kitchen was dark and empty, no signs of tea having been cooked even though it should have been nearly ready, so they could sit down to eat when she got back, a routine neatly arranged. He had emailed late morning as he normally did, to tell her what he would be making, a routine that had formed naturally, a part of their general, daily chitchat, keeping in contact, discussing the practical necessities and what groceries needed buying. But he had clearly not cooked, not so much as touched the kitchen to even consider preparing anything.

The rooms were familiar, a home she had often wandered in the dark for such mundane reasons as going to the toilet in the middle of the night. And yet they seemed unfamiliar and strange, a foreign land she had stumbled into, shaken from the certainty of the routine she had grown accustomed to. She wondered, had something happened to call Draco away, some emergency. Something they hadn’t been able to reach her for. She wondered if there was something that had drawn Draco away, led him to abandon her, changing his mind about the small life the two of them had begun to build on the ground floor. Returning to being her enemy in some way. She wondered, unwillingly, if something had happened to him. She wondered if once she discovered what it was, whether she would be able to survive. 

The dread crept so cruelly through her. She knew all of the dates that would leave him drained to nothing but grieving memories, overwhelmed by what had happened and what had been lost. There were days when she too couldn’t function, barely capable of performing the most basic of tasks. But this was not one of those days, it had been no one’s birthday, no one’s anniversary. There had been no significant battles or deaths that she knew of. Those days they were both sensitive to everything, memories haunting them, though it was true that reminders of people they had known and lost could surface at any moment, striking out of the blue, triggered by any small thing.

She pushed open the door to what served as their shared study, and finally saw a hint of light. The room itself was in darkness, but Draco’s computer was on, the screen casting a faint glow of blue over him. He wasn’t looking at it, it seemed to be entirely ignored. Draco sat there, shadows covering his face, still in the centre of the room except for his hand, gently stroking the cat that sat on his lap. She felt a brief wave of relief, that he was alive. That he was there. It played a part of her nightmares and the dark thoughts that would haunt her waking hours, the idea of his dying or simply leaving her. She had witnessed enough death, had mourned enough. She had precious few people remaining in her life who she could feel herself with, so that a part of her clung on to what she had with Draco, terrified that it would one day vanish into thin air. They had fallen together, naturally and against all logic, but now they were Hermione never wanted it to change. Words that were rarely spoken, feelings that were hard to confront and admit with a man who had once been her opposite number on the battlefield, in a lifetime where loves and lovers were a weakness at risk of being killed by the enemy. 

For an indefinite amount of time she remained there, standing in the doorway. She wanted to turn the light on, to bathe the room with light and allow them both to see clearly. But at the same time she didn’t want to turn the light on and expose whatever feelings might be present to the harsh, electrical glow of lightbulbs. She was unsure what was best, to behave as normal people might and conduct themselves in a properly lit room, or keep themselves hidden away in the comforting embrace of shadows as if that would allow them to hide from all that they wished to avoid remembering. Memories that were interwoven in the dark and the light, so that they could never escape. Her eyes had adjusted, no longer as quickly or as sharply as they once had, but she could see in the grainy vision gifted to her by her rod cells, colourless in the dark grey but allowing her to make out the shapes in front of her.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever, holding Hermione captive. She knew that Draco knew she was there, but he said nothing. She too said nothing, unsure what to say, lacking in any clues as to what was wrong and why he was sitting still in the darkness. He made no move to break it, the only sound she could pick up from within the room being the soft rhythm of their breathing. Reluctant to break the spell but also knowing she had to take some kind of action before they became rooted for eternity in inaction, Hermione turned the light on. The sudden harshness blinded her for a moment, and she could only imagine it did the same to Draco, painful to eyes that had become accustomed to the dark and unprepared for being flooded with the brightness, pupils being forced to rapidly constrict. 

“She’s dead,” Draco whispered, his voice cracking slightly, his eyes filling with tears as they met hers. For a brief moment, Hermione was unsure which of the many many people in his life who had died he was referring to, before it occurred to her that it was Minerva, still in his lap, who he meant. Hermione could see the traces of tear-tracks on his cheeks, from old tears now being traced by new ones triggered by speaking those words to her. She could feel the heaviness of grief settling in her chest, shock and acceptance simultaneously making their presence known. Minerva had been an old cat, and had she been in her human form she would have been an old woman. Everything died, naturally and smoothly. It was a far better death than many she had witnessed, far better than many she had caused.

She went to him, moving naturally as there was nothing else she could think of but to go to him. She too stroked the dead cat in his lap for a brief moment, the fur still soft though the body was now cold, before moving her fingers to comb gently through his blonde hair. She could feel the grief inside her, just as she could feel the pin-pricks of tears behind her eyes, but she clamped down on it, holding the tears back. She would grieve later, confront her feelings when she was ready. First she would deal with the practical issues. She was used to dealing with death, even if it had been a while since she had actually done so. It was different from the circumstances she had been trained for as well, a peaceful death from old-age at home, rather than a sudden death on the battlefield.

For a brief moment she leant downwards, leaning her forehead against Draco’s, drawing resolution from him. Then she turned and walked to the phone on the desk, glancing at the list of phone numbers stuck to the wall above it, though she didn’t need to check. She knew the number by heart. Calmly she punched in the numbers, waiting as the phone rang on the other end.

“Hello,” came the answer once the ringing ceased, “Petunia Dursley speaking,”

“It’s Hermione,” Hermione said, a slightly redundant statement as she knew Petunia would have recognised the number and her voice, “I just called to let you know, Minerva is dead,”

“Oh…” Petunia said, her voice full of concern, “My condolences… Is there anything we can do?”

“No…” Hermione started, before changing her mind, “Actually, could we bury her in your garden?”

The flat had no garden, and it was rented. She and Draco were as happy there as they could be, and it was convenient, but they were not sure how long they would stay there. There was still a sense of impermanence to it. The garden at Privet Drive was beautiful, attached to the house that the Dursleys had lived in for decades. It seemed like a fitting place for a burial of a small animal at short notice.

“Of course,” Petunia said, “That’s fine, we’d be honoured…”

For a moment Hermione felt sorry for her, as well as unbelievably grateful. Petunia had never met Minerva in her human form, had never known her as anything other than a slightly old cat that Hermione had briefly considered trying to give to the Dursleys as they had a garden and she lived in a flat. But in the end, Hermione had clung on to Minerva, who seemed content to live indoors anyway.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, “And could you pass on the news to Harry whenever you hear from him next,”

“Of course,” Petunia reassured her, before the conversation closed and they both hung up. Hermione sighed, knowing she had started with the easiest phone call. A part of her had been tempted to leave the passing on of the news entirely to Petunia, not just to Harry but to everyone else, but she drew herself together. Once more she punched in familiar numbers, letting the phone ring. If there was no answer she would feel no guilt at simply leaving a message, but after a few rings the phone was picked up.

“Who is it?” said the cold, deep voice that reminded Hermione of the cold, dark dungeon it still seemed to belong in, even if he now lived in a pleasant cottage surrounded by open skies.

“Hermione,” she answered, her inflection mirroring his, “Minerva’s dead,”

She wondered for a moment if maybe she should have phrased it more gently, as out of them all it had been Severus who had known Minerva for the longest. The two of them had been colleagues together, though Hermione had no idea if they had been friends. Severus was still tight-lipped about everything, reluctant to provide any details, just as he always had been. Hermione had no idea if he would talk freely to Harry, or maybe even Ginny, but it was not something he had ever tended towards with her. They were acquaintances who had survived, not close friends. Maybe they would be in the future. So she knew nothing of his relationship with Minerva from him, except the fact that Severus had seemed to show no remorse in leaving Minerva in Hermione’s care. She had no idea about Minerva’s feelings about Severus, because Minerva had been a cat.

“OK,” Severus said, his voice calm. Hermione couldn’t tell how he felt, if he was upset or relieved by the news, or maybe if he simply felt nothing. Any option was possible with him, his voice more unreadable than even his face would have been had they been standing together rather than separated by many miles, connected only by a telephone line stretching across the country. 

“I’ve told Petunia,” she continued, relaying the practical issues, “She’s going to be buried in the Dursley’s garden this weekend,”

“OK,” Severus repeated, as there was nothing else for him to say.

After Hermione had hung up, she hesitated briefly. She looked at the short list of telephone numbers again. There was one more number she felt that she ought to call, to let Sybil know the news too, but she didn’t. She had never liked Sybil, and Sybil had never liked her. She had disliked divination in general, and the fact that Sybil’s prophecy had come true had not endeared Hermione to the subject, rather it had increased her resentment to the art and the woman in equal measures. Sybil had known Minerva, but Hermione felt less obligation to tell her. She would let someone else do that, knowing that the news would filter through eventually, but if she made the phone call she not only would have to speak to Sybil but also there was a slight chance that Sybil might present herself for the funeral. Hermione thought it to be unlikely, but if Sybil didn’t come she would be offended, just as she would be irritated if she did.

So she left the telephone where it was and stepped back to where Draco remained, staying still. He smiled weakly at her and she sighed, her hand resting on his shoulder. She could understand his reluctance to move with Minerva lying on his lap. She imagined that had their situations been reversed then he would have likewise returned home to find her frozen in place. It was hard enough to disturb a living cat that had settled in on your lap, but a dead one wouldn’t stretch grumpily and jump back when you returned to your seat, but would stay dead and unresponsive.

“I haven’t cooked,” he said, an entirely redundant statement. It was obvious from his position, where his attention was, and the manner in which the kitchen seemed so undisturbed. She didn’t blame him, she doubted she would have been able to cook in his place. She had no appetite for a proper meal anyway.

“It’s fine,” she said, both of them knowing that no mater what Draco could not simply stay sitting with Minerva on his lap, that something had to be done. With a heavy sigh, Hermione chose an old shoebox balanced on a shelf that had been used to store odds and ends. She tipped the contents out onto the floor, something she knew would make life more difficult for Draco and would require all the items to be picked up probably by her at a later date, but for the time being she had no further energy for dealing with everything. Draco would manage to manoeuvre regardless and she would tidy eventually. There were more important things to think about. Both of them only had a limited amount of energy anyway, and it felt as if no matter how much Hermione controlled her emotions or how vacantly Draco seemed to be handling his, all of their resources had been drained.

Gently, reluctantly, but knowing something had to be done, between them they moved Minerva’s limp body into the shoe box, arranging her so she looked as if she were sleeping, curled up in a box. Hermione’s hands trembled slightly as she moved to place the box temporarily on her desk, on top of her university notes, choosing that rather than on top of Draco’s sketches and notes.

“I’ll make beans on toast,” Draco offered quietly. Cat hairs remained in his lap, which he ordinarily would have brushed off but Hermione could see him hesitating. They would never again be replaced by Minerva curling up to sleep in his lap, preferring him over Hermione for sitting on as he rarely moved, acting as a stable chair for her.

Hermione sighed, looking at the drawings that littered his desk like a shrine to the dead. His family. The Slytherins that had been in his year, not that all of them survived to graduate, their ages varying by necessity of that fact. Most of them had been her enemies, if not explicitly then by association. Maybe they wouldn’t have been if she’d known them or if they hadn’t all been taught their varying ideologies. But for all that she had fought against them, they had been Draco’s friends and family. He had loved them and lost them. Amongst them, he had a photograph of her, so entirely out of place as if she were surrounded by her enemies as she had been during the war. But at the same time, she fit right in. Draco loved her, so her photograph was there. There was one, further back and less obvious, of Ginny, Luna and Severus by their house in the Lake District, and one of Harry with his family at Privet Drive. The past in pencil and the present in coloured photographs. 

He had made an effort, learning to draw as accurately as possible, so he could replicate the faces that he had no photographs of as they had all been lost along with the magic, swallowed up with the bodies, leaving nothing but memories. He had drawn for her too, Ron and the Weasleys, Tonks, members of the Order who she had loved and lost. Some of them he had never even met, so the pictures were vague. Some of them he had fought in some manner. Some of them were dead because of him, their deaths arranged by him even if he hadn’t dealt the finishing blow. But now the sides they had been on made no difference, the two of them were on the same side, no longer fighting a war but picking up the pieces that were left of their lives. There wasn’t much, except grief, a desire to survive and each other. She wondered if Minerva the cat would join the drawings, or if Draco would draw her as the human they had known. Or maybe he wouldn’t draw her at all. They had pictures of her as a cat, sitting on their laps and playing with toys.

She let Draco cook them beans on toast, easy and comforting. As he did, she thought back to the woman who had taught her. Minerva had been someone she looked up to, though she knew to Draco it had been different. To him she was someone to be feared, a dangerous woman in a position of power over him at Hogwarts, who would become his enemy once he left to take his place in the war. But to Hermione, she had been someone to emulate. Hermione had wanted to be like the stern woman, her back always held so impeccably straight, her face always so impassive. Strong and capable, with the ability to shift into a cat at any moment she chose. That ability had proven to be a problem, as she had been in cat form with Hermione when the magic had been torn from the world, trapping her forever. Without magic, there was no way for her to return to the shape of a woman.

Hermione was still unsure if the mind within the small body had been that of a cat or an old woman who had been a witch. The idea of the woman she had modelled herself after being dead and gone had been something she didn’t want to consider, but at the same time she couldn’t bear to imagine the horror of how it might feel to be trapped forever inside the body of a cat. Minerva had been intelligent, so to be unable to communicate, to be unable to live independently and express herself seemed to be a fate almost worse than death. The indignity of being a cat, who was fed from a tin, taken to the vet’s, whose litter tray Hermione emptied, that all too struck Hermione as being uncomfortable. She neither wanted Minerva the woman to be gone nor for her to be trapped in her cat form. There had been moments when Hermione had been convinced that the cat was far too intelligent, far too perceptive, to be just a cat. But then there were moments when she could see nothing but a normal cat that she spent far too much of her time watching closely. 

“Another one gone,” Draco said quietly as they ate mechanically, neither of them hungry but knowing they needed to force the food down. 

“Another one to bury,” Hermione sighed, unsure how she felt about sleeping in the same flat as a corpse, even though it wasn’t human. She had been accustomed to death but that was behind her. She no longer wanted it to be a part of her daily existence. Even if Minerva had been a cat, she had also been a person and a link to that past.

They went to bed early, the washing up left for the next day, no more energy for dealing with the day left. They lay beside each other, a loose embrace that involved little effort but gave a constant source of comfort, a warming sense of not being alone in the dark room. It didn’t seem like that long ago that they had been enemies, a situation that meant that Hermione would never have imagined consenting to sleep with Draco, though she knew there would always be a risk of non-consensual acts in the event of capture. She knew he had never considered her either, a mudblood beneath his dignity, only an enemy to kill. But now they were no longer enemies, even if sometimes she didn’t know quite what they were. None of the words in the English language seemed to reflect what she felt, seeming either too romantic or too trite.

“Another soldier lost,” Hermione murmured, as she might have done once upon a time, when Minerva had been one of her chess pieces to move in the eternal battle against the forces of darkness, whose pieces were moved by the man in the bed beside her. But the war was over, there was nothing left to fight for. There was just another body to bury, but this one they at least could bury. Even if she was a cat, had for many years potentially just been a beloved pet, she would still get a grave. They would still mourn for her in their own way. So many of those they had lost, virtually everyone that had meant anything to them, had no graves they could visit, had died in that one single moment that changed everything so the grief had been a single flood of devastation too great to cope with. 

“May I ask you a question?” Draco asked, his breath against her hair, after they both should have been asleep but neither of them were, both kept awake by thoughts they kept to themselves. 

“Of course,” Hermione answered, her mind drifting through the stages of grief. She knew would cry in the next few days, the grief all finally pouring out from her, but until then she had thoughts to get in order. She had emotions to consider, emotions she was still unsure of. Emotions that needed to be sorted and acknowledged.

“I think…” Draco started, uncertain in a way he had never been when they first met at the tender ago of eleven, “I think that we should consider getting married,”

Hermione stayed silent, allowing him to continue. He had asked to ask a question, but hadn’t. It didn’t matter, she understood it regardless of the foibles of semantics. She wondered if it was something he had considered before, or something brought on by Minerva’s death. It didn’t matter to her. 

“When I die,” Draco continued, his tone almost listless, “I think that would make it easier, legally,”

She turned to embrace him closer, “If either of us die,” she agreed, “It would be more sensible. I agree, we should get married. I think I might even want to,”

“Good,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice, tinged with tears, “Good, let’s get married then,”


	15. May 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May, 2018.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I ought to apologise for the Russian troll bit of the conversation.

The weather wasn’t perfect, but Harry hadn’t expected it to be. Life wasn’t perfect, so it seemed unfair to expect the weather to be. But it hinted of optimism, as if the future was as bright as a glorious sunrise. He knew that the waves of unbridled optimism rarely lasted forever, they would often fade into despair or cataclysmic grief without any warning, but then those feelings would give way to optimism and a sense of peace. An eternal cycle, like the rising and setting of the sun. Nothing would ever last forever, whether good or bad.

He suspected that his good mood was in part brought out by the sun. It felt like spring, touches of sunlight coaxing flowers into bloom. Warmth settling in, drawing the country towards summer, which would fade to autumn, chilling to winter before reawakening with spring. Trees that had been bare, naked of their leaves, now returned to full greenery. The small apple trees at the end of the garden were beginning to blossom in preparation for bearing fruit. Harry was looking forward to eating them. He had grown to appreciate the wide variety of apples available in Britain, mainly through the act of leaving. Just as he had grown to appreciate what was available anywhere once he left and found that he missed what he had grown accustomed to.

He was looking forward to eating all of the various fruits and vegetables growing in the garden. Very few things truly compared to the taste of freshly grown, freshly picked produce. He stepped out into the sunlight, appreciating the warmth. It didn’t have to be that warm for him to be grateful for it. In some ways, the promise of warm, sunny weather to come was more precious than actual warm, sunny weather might be. He could enjoy the moment while at the same time enjoying the thought of what the future would bring. Even if it wouldn’t all be good, he still chose to be optimistic. He wanted to believe in a bright future, full of hope. 

Ginny and Luna were gardening, both kneeling in the vegetable patch, their hands and knees getting covered in dirt. Ginny’s hair was braided, a sensible, thick plait to keep it out of the way as much as possible. She’d been muttering about getting it cut, the length starting to annoy her, wanting something shorter that would be less of a bother to look after. Her clothes were practical, old trousers and an old jumper that she kept for gardening, tatty and stained. Luna was beside her, her golden hair hanging loose but likewise dressed sensibly. 

“Your tea’s here,” he called out, placing two full mugs on the corner of the wooden table on the patio. Luna raised her head slightly from what she was doing to nod at him.

“Thanks,” Ginny called, not looking up from the plants in front of her. The tea was still piping hot, and he knew they would make their way over to collect it before it cooled, dirty hands leaving muddy smears on the china. He had made them tea in their gardening mugs, mugs specifically designated for that role like their gardening clothes. Plain and hardy, easy to wash and with little emotional attachment should they shatter on the hard patio, slipping from muddy hands.

He breathed in the fresh air, before turning and returning to the kitchen for the other two mugs. He knew that in a short while Draco and Hermione would arrive, and there would be more rounds of tea to be had. It was still early in the day, the sun still languidly creeping upwards in the sky. Later it would sink back down, setting the sky on fire and robbing them of daylight, only for the same pattern to repeat again the next day. A cycle that went on eternally, a backbone to the rhythm of life. Carrying the remaining mugs back to the patio table, he sat down in one of the wooden chairs. They had seen better days, but still served their purpose. In many ways, just like him. Just like all of them.

Quietly, Severus took the mug placed in front of him, raising it to his lips to inhale the scent of tea and the warmth of the steam. Far off Harry could fancy he heard the sound of cars on the road, but it could just as easily be his imagination, waiting for the approaching car that would bring Draco and Hermione to their door. He could hear the low murmuring of Ginny and Luna chattering about their garden, mostly Ginny doing the talking. Birds sang, a variety of types each singing their own personal song, filling the air with delicate notes. Harry sat, soaking in the moment. Soaking in the sounds and smells of the countryside, taking simple pleasure just in being alive. Being alive and surrounded by life. He knew that it was the season for baby animals, with lambs being born in the fields nearby. Ducklings, all tiny and fluffy, would be on the canal by Privet Drive whether he was there to see them or not. He had no doubt there would be ducklings somewhere near to where he was too, it was just a case of knowing where to look. Either way, he knew that Vernon would almost certainly take pictures and send them to him, as he did every year. Both he and Dudley appreciated it, strangely attached to keeping up with the news of the ducklings on the canal even after they had both moved away, as if it was a nostalgic remnant of the children they had once been.

He looked at Severus, sitting beside him. A familiar face and a familiar man. Sometimes it felt like he had known him for all of eternity, at least since his birth, but they had met first when Harry went to Hogwarts. He had no memory of them meeting before then, and Severus had never mentioned them ever having done so. On the one hand, Harry was completely adjusted to seeing the man in front of him, a man who looked younger than he should. Dark skin and darker hair, a vacant gaze full of intelligence. The hooked nose that Harry could trace the shape of in his sleep. Sometimes Harry felt the lack of the bats, but it no longer felt as strong. They were gone, never to return. The only trace was the bats that roosted in the eaves, and the memories that Harry had. The man in the present was just a man, solitary and human. 

“It’s beautiful here,” Harry said wistfully, turning away as he turned his attention to the present. He cast his eyes over the trees that framed the garden, the sunlight caressing their green leaves. The chickens clucked softly from their corner of the garden, enjoying their breakfast. It felt like home, or at least a home. Anywhere could be home, he knew that. In that respect it matched up, being a place he could live in. He could see himself living there forever, comfortable just being himself. He had often found himself thinking that he could just stay anywhere, find a degree of comfort in his existence there, appreciating the pros and accepting the cons. In a way, it was the people that made a difference, almost as if home really was where the heart was. But he wasn’t sure if that was a good way of thinking. He wasn’t sure if he had a heart left. A part of him still wondered if it wasn’t buried in the desolate section of the Scottish highlands that had once housed Hogwarts and now was a disappointingly normal section of land. He had been back once, and had felt a wave of misery and despair as he approached the location, but he had no way of knowing if that was something lingering on that spot or just his own emotional reaction to what he knew had happened there. He assumed it was most likely to be the latter.

“So I’ve been told,” Severus said wryly, his attention on Harry. For a moment, Harry felt like he was the centre of the universe, just as he once had been. First as a child of prophecy, over who the entire chaos of the wizarding world had fought. Plots and conspiracies flying about him, over his head at first and then ensnaring him in their web. A pawn to be controlled. As if the world was competing for his attention, competing for the right to captivate him, all long before he realised why. Long before he realised what it was that was happening around him.

And then, then he had been a saviour whose decisions changed lives and worlds even before he had made the decision that changed the world and tore apart lives. With hindsight, in the new life he had built, he could only see himself as having been so young. Now he couldn’t see how anyone could ever be old enough, mature enough, ready to make those choices, but they had come unbidden to him. As if there was never another option, as if the whole world danced to his tune and he obeyed something else that drove it all.

He wasn’t the centre of the universe anymore, though. He no longer commanded adulation or abhorrence as he once had, he no longer could alter the fates of those around him with a mere flick of his finger. A thought, a word. A momentary whim. And yet, at the same time, he was. He knew that he formed a part of the backbone of Vernon and Petunia’s world, that he was a fundamental element of Dudley’s life. That he had shaped Luna and Ginny, whether he meant to or not, and that their lives bore a constant reminder of his existence whether he was there or not, whether he lived or died, he could never be erased. That he had helped to mould Hermione and Draco, their focus having been on him for too long for the effects to ever disappear. And to Severus, who should be free, who was supposed to be free, the universe still revolved around him.

He looked at Severus, again, thoughtfully, as he had so many times before. That was a tangled mess of words that were wrapped around the two of them, strangling them and choking them, giving them no choice. Unbreakable bonds. But there was always some kind of choice, always some kind of leeway. In many ways it was Severus himself who had taught Harry that, never explicitly as so little he ever did was explicit, but a gentle learning curve that had taken its hold on Harry.

There was guilt and responsibility there, on both sides. Obligation that would never end, a bond that excluded all others. Harry had tried to put it from his mind, to be a single, normal man adrift in the world. But no matter how far he drifted, Severus acted as an anchor of sorts. He wondered, had it been the other way round before, when he was still in the process of becoming himself and Severus was able to fly wherever he chose. A constant presence, reminding him of a neglected duty. Harry hadn’t known back then, and Severus had never said anything to that effect. Just as Severus had never said anything when he left, but Harry had still felt the weight of his responsibilities that he had abandoned and discarded. It had never turned to resentment though, just a strange guilt, like a parent who had left his child on a doorstep, just like he had himself been left on a doorstep. Trusting that those left to pick up those pieces would rise to the task far better than he had been capable in that moment, trusting that Severus would hold no grudge, shameless taking advantage of that fact that overrode everything.

For all his comments about loving them all, he wasn’t sure. That he sometimes felt the need to repeat it, awkwardly, like a mantra where he was the one who really needed convincing. Did he really love them or was there simply no other alternative? Who else was there in the world with whom he could simply be himself, exist in all his imperfections and scars. He had his blood family as well, Petunia and Vernon, Dudley, always there but that was different. It was more than anyone else in the kitchen had, though they had the Dursleys as well, an adoption that had happened by accident, by association, a consequence of their earlier adoption of Harry.

He could make friends, forge relationships and bed lovers, but all of that remained on the surface. He couldn’t find the words to explain what lay in his past, couldn’t have the slightest hope that those words would be believed. He couldn’t ever be himself, connect unapologetically. Without magic the stories of what had been were nothing but stories, the kind that became a best selling series of novels, a series of films and a whole spin off series still ongoing, even decades later. A story that became a cornerstone of cultural understanding, the ghosts that haunted him lovingly kept alive by swathes of fans. Long dead faces recreated as achingly beautiful fan art, resurrected by role players, their lives rewritten over and over again in fanfiction.

For a moment he almost said something, could feel words forming on the tip of his tongue. Words that he still felt uncomfortable acknowledging, words that he didn’t want to say. There was too much between them to really reduce to words, too much complications to ever be able to understand it all. He thought of his mother, a woman he had never known but who had shaped the entire course of his life. He wondered, suddenly, if she had any idea how everything would unfold. He wondered if she would do everything the same way, knowing how it would end. She had given up her life, sacrificed everything, for him. Thrown her whole being into ensuring his survival. He knew that he knew little of her, that he should gather the courage to ask his aunt or Severus more questions, not the vague ones he had pondered over until then. The probing ones that would truly explore the depths of who she had been, the good and the bad. But every time he wold hesitate, not so much out of fear or anything for himself, but out of guilt. Out of care, knowing that no matter how much Petunia and Severus might love him they also found it uncomfortable to talk about Lily.

He knew that she represented something to them both, a whole host of memories that had left deep scars in their psyches. As much as he was curious he was also respectful of them. It was a part of the responsibility he felt for Severus, who he knew would be able to tell him details he might forever regret hearing. Severus, who if pressed, would likely deny him nothing, pushing aside his own sensibilities in favour of Harry’s whims. So it was Harry who had to second-guess everything, to decide from all the angles what course of action was for the best. He tried to shake the thoughts from his head, to distract himself.

Instead, he turned his gaze to Ginny and Luna. Severus didn’t seem to mind the silence. He never had. It wasn’t true silence though, that was something that Harry still sometimes had nightmares about. It was a quietness, the quietness of the world managing despite everything. Birds singing, bees buzzing. There had been talk of them getting a hive, keeping bees. Harry didn’t know yet if it would happen, and if it did when, but it sounded nice. It was just pleasant sometimes to think of the possibilities that lay ahead. Just as it was pleasant to sit in the sunlight allowing the scent of freshly cut grass to waft over him from the nearby fields. Just as it was pleasant to bathe in the distant hum of nature, as if the planet itself was singing, mingling with the occasional rumble of an engine on the road, passing them by as most of the world did. 

Sometimes, he would admit to himself a hint of jealousy when he watched them. Ginny had paused in her weeding, hands covered in dirt, looking at Luna, her eyes soft. Once they had been hard, ruthlessly prepared to do anything that was deemed necessary, no matter what that might entail. But Ginny had moved on, changed even if she could never change her past. Luna returned her gaze, a smile playing about her lips. In some ways, it was more intimate a moment than had they kissed, a more private gesture than had they stripped. Tender little glimpses as if their love was a precious thing that ran through every minute aspect of their lives, as if every fibre of their beings felt each touch, each glance, each moment. As if time would never dull it, but rather refine it to the most beautifully polished diamond.

Sometimes he marvelled at the idea that Ginny and Luna, who had been harbingers of death and destruction, now created life in their own little way. Growing fruit and vegetables, looking after their chickens, thinking of including bees in the mix. Making things with what they had, simple and yet complicated. He liked that they had found something that made them if not happy then at least content. Sometimes that was all that could really be asked for.

Everyone was different, just as they had all had been different at Hogwarts they were different away from it. The effect lingered on, and it lingered differently in all of them. Ginny and Luna had withdrawn away to their garden. Harry had left, to find out who he was without magic. He still hadn’t found the answer, and he didn’t think he ever would. Mostly, he had found that he didn’t know who he had been with magic. He was himself, and sometimes that was alright. Sometimes it wasn’t. He couldn’t change it. Severus was himself, static in a world that was changing, static in the way he always had been. Only now it was the world that moved in a colourful blur about him, as he remained distant and foreign. Before it had been bats, with Severus always a world away, something different that didn’t belong even in a world of magic. Draco and Hermione had faced the world in their way, and faced each other at the same time.

They had orchestrated a lot of the war that he could remember, even though it predated either of their births. They had played their roles, stepped up into their positions and guided their sides to a stalemate, the stalemate that had always been. Now they engaged with the world, poking and prodding at it. No longer enemies, but a united front. Constantly sniping at each other, sharp words that held affection rather than the sniping of war where they sought the other’s untimely death. As if there were battles they couldn’t quite relinquish, but they could always adapt to something new, reform and recreate themselves.

And then there was him and Severus, caught in the middle, lost as if without direction as there was nothing else to them but the war but now they have to live without it. Two people who didn’t really exist, if Harry had to think about it. People that had been created, shaped, forged as weapons and now had to be normal humans, stripped away of their power by their own actions. Their own choice. Their own spell.

Harry stood up, abruptly, as if he was trying to run away from his thoughts. He wished he could. Just like he wished he could forget the promises that lay between the two of them. He felt for a moment as though he was entirely paralysed by a promise made a long time ago, bound and hopeless. Devoid of all choice, every hint of his own will torn from him, overridden by the binding oaths. But they weren’t his promises, he was just caught up in vows he had never made. He started to babble, irrelevant words spilling forth into the garden without much meaning, merely serving to distract from the thoughts he didn’t want to think. To prevent Severus from reading his mind, even though such spells could no longer be cast.

“The problem is sometimes people just don’t understand, even just tiny irrelevant things,” Harry said, the change in subject so abrupt it could have caused whiplash, even though Severus had no idea that that was not what he had been ruminating over. He knew that Severus knew he was searching for something else, avoiding a subject that might always remain hidden. Sometimes it felt as if their whole relationship was built on never mentioning things, leaving things in the dark where they perhaps belonged. Sometimes, he wondered if the world would end should he actually breach them, open up the thorny issues that loomed over them like a ghost. Haunting them as though an exorcism would make little difference.

“Like, Russian trolls,” he said, “And Russian troll farms. They crop up in the news, and I know what they actually are but I keep seeing in my minds eyes Russian trolls, you know. Little blue people with spiky purple hair that lure their victims into traps with lights, even though I know there are none of them around anymore. But I see it in the news and I keep imagining a group of them, each with their own section of a keyboard all working together to compose an abusive tweet and it just seems so silly…”

Severus laughed, shaking his head. Giving in to Harry’s choice of topic, as he always did.

“But not many people would understand what I mean,” Harry said, with a shrug. He didn’t really know why he was saying this, why he had chosen to talk to Severus like this. He knew that Draco would have delighted in the imagery, and more likely than not doodled a selection of tiny trolls on a keyboard. Hermione too might have been amused, drawing their conversation deeper into some different topic of either world. 

“I think most people understand the trolls from mythology,” Severus pointed out, as if he was barely a part of the world that went on around him.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, frustrated suddenly and regretful he had started the conversation, “But not specifically Russian trolls. Maybe if it was Welsh trolls or something then it would be a bit different, but no one else had encountered Russian trolls until this entirely unrelated kind became a thing in the news,”

“They were pervasive and incredibly adaptable,” Severus said, remembering, “Annoying too,”

“And now an entirely different kind of Russian troll crops up in the media as a pervasive feature of social media that threatens democracy and so on,” Harry continued. He sighed, gazing about the garden.

“I ate some once,” he commented, before adding, “Not the fake news variety,”

A twitch of Severus’s mouth suggested that he didn’t consider them to be appealing as a food source.

“It was one time, when I was on a mission with Ron and Hermione,” Harry said, “We were camping on the moors and had pretty much run out of food. We saw some of the tell-tale lights, and assumed they must be luring a sheep. So we decided to swoop in and nab the sheep for ourselves. As it turned out, it wasn’t a sheep they were trying to lure but a child, so we netted the Russian trolls. There was a brief debate about the ethics of eating them and in the end we did. No seasoning or anything, just cooked thoroughly and eaten. Crunchy and not particularly tasty…”

“And the child?” Severus asked, a question that long ago Harry doubted he would have asked.

“I… don’t know,” Harry admitted, “We just left it. We did save it from the Russian trolls at least. But we had a mission and… well… it could have been an enemy spy. I assume if it was just a normal muggle child it would have wandered back to its parents. But I don’t know why a child would have been wandering about on the moors late at night alone…”

Severus didn’t say anything, looking thoughtful. Thoughts that Harry let pass, leaving them locked inside his head, no longer wanting to think about it. No longer wanting to consider that maybe there was a dead child lost on the moors. Wanting to absolve himself of deaths, not add anymore to his conscience, grateful that it would remain unknown. Sinking back into silence that was less peaceful than it had been, wishing he had never broken it.


	16. February 2001

The passageways were dark, but it didn’t matter. Outside it was night, so being buried deep under the earth made little difference. Luna was used to it anyway. She could see well enough, and she didn’t even need to see that much. Magic enhanced her vision, helped by a gentle finger touching the walls, always keeping her on the right path. A world where the light could never truly penetrate, not without a cataclysmic disaster tearing the winding passageways to shreds. The sort of disaster that lay within her grasp.

Her footsteps were steady, almost silent in soft shoes designed for quietness. Her clothes flexible and dark, fading into the shadows of the catacombs that were nothing but shadows of varying shades of darkness. There she could almost forget that she was a member of the living, that once upon a time she had been a young girl who played in the sunlight. It felt like a long time ago, though she knew that once she was done with her mission she would return above ground just as seamlessly, where she would wait as she always did, mixing away at her explosives and poisons to perfect them, always prepared for when she would head behind enemy lines, beyond the detection of scouts, to set her death traps. 

She wondered if her father was also about, playing a similar role. She had always worked alone, following in his footsteps, but collaborating with him played to both their strengths. It was through her father that she had started down the path she was on. She remembered being a child, long before she began attending Hogwarts, sitting with him as he tweaked his explosives, ensuring that the chemical components were just right. She wondered, sometimes, if there had been an alternative purpose that she could have served, but she couldn’t quite picture that. She had found her niche, crafting devices that would kill through increasingly creative methods, whether it be brunt force or seeping poisons.

Carefully, with deft fingers that had been calibrating chemicals since before she could remember, she set one. Each component carefully positioned so that when the time was right they would react fully, to devastating effect. She didn’t dare risk venturing into the actual stronghold of the Ministry, where she knew that Voldemort held court, but these passageways underneath the ground served as a route for the Death Eaters. Destroying them would be useful, a careful tactic in the never-ending game of cat and mouse the two sides played with each other. The explosions would likely do more than just remove a route from the map, with some luck it would also cause countless deaths and injuries. But explosions wouldn’t work there, not where there were muggles nearby, oblivious to the war that raged on beneath their noses. Luna knew that whatever she did there was a decent chance that some of them would be injured or killed, but she had always known that that was a risk. People would die, some of them not necessarily the intended targets. Killing meant more than avoiding accidental deaths. It was not her job to deal with altering the memories of the muggles that might become caught up in her traps, just as everyone knew there was always a chance that some of the victims could end up being unlucky members of the Order rather than Death Eaters. It was an accepted risk. 

The real problem with explosions was that the muggles might notice. Sometimes it was possible when the areas were so far from the reach of muggle knowledge that they would go unnoticed, and it was a delicate talent worthy of the art to be able to ensure that explosions could be both deadly but also silent and secret. One thing both sides had always agreed on was to keep themselves far away from the muggles. Sometimes there would be accidents and muggles would die, unfortunate but ultimately irrelevant. It caused problems with regards to paperwork in the Ministry, which always depended to an extent on which side held most sway there, and the necessity of explanations. As the muggle world grew round them, technology threatening them, they had to take more care to wage their wars through smaller and quieter methods. The secrets of magic could never be revealed. She knew that, just as any witch or wizard knew it. It was a cornerstone of their very existence.

Parts of the catacombs were so deep underground that parts of them could simply be detonated leading to cave-ins that were unlikely to be noticed by anyone other than those Death Eaters unfortunate enough to be buried beneath the masses of earth that would cascade down upon them. But for the rest, Luna had to be more creative. It was that that she truly enjoyed. She loved the way in which she had a problem before her, an area studied carefully over a long period of time. She could always come up with a solution. She had considered a variety of gases which would allow her to ignite the air, burning away anyone unlucky enough to be present, but it seemed risky. It appealed but there was a chance of a fire being noticed, just as some areas might be noticed if there was an uncontrolled explosion. Those tactics were best kept for places such as Hogwarts, where there were no muggles to start at fire and fury bleeding across the skies. 

Here, where there was a chance of muggles noticing, nerve gases were best. She had always enjoyed playing with their components, always aware of how important it was to ensure that she kept herself from being exposed to them. There was a chance, as there always was, that some fumes would escape and accidentally kill some muggles. Luna wasn’t too concerned about that though. Such things happened, collateral damage was a part of any war. Her ultimate aim was to bring down Voldemort, though she was no longer idealistic enough to believe that that would be the end of it. She suspected that his death would merely invite one of his subordinates to step into his place, just as he himself had stepped into the position of leader long before her birth.

Realistically she just set out to kill as many enemies as she possibly could. It was a method that meant that there was a high risk to her own side and the ignorant muggles as well, but she accepted that. A few more deaths made little difference in the grand scheme of things, worthwhile sacrifices in the name of the greater good. Every moment of her early life had been carefully controlled to bring her to her full potential. She was the daughter of a family that specialised in explosions and neurotoxins, in the swift and brutal deaths that would follow. He father had been teaching her about that higher purpose long before she had been able to read or write, long before she had any comprehension about what death even was. All she had known was that one day she would do as her father did and bring it to others. So she had learnt, sitting beside him as he stroked his fingers tenderly through her hair, murmuring soft words of encouragement. She had found within herself the same unbridled passion that her parents had fostered, the feelings of love and enchantment that they had almost bred into her.

Luna thought that knew the catacombs well enough that she could design the destruction to be complete, a varied combination of her favourite explosives which would themselves meet in the heat of the explosion to react with each other, causing even greater disaster. Deadly in the extreme. Anyone present would not survive the experience, the gases that would result being intolerable to a person not properly prepared and she knew there would be no one prepared for them. But that was only appropriate for the deeper passages, where any shuddering of the earth might cause alarm in the muggle world, leading to reprimands and paperwork, or possibly even the dreaded fear of the wizarding world being revealed, the one thing that everyone feared no matter their side. So she would save those for the deepest parts, combined with toxins that would seep through the air of the upper catacombs to kill anyone attempting to use them.

She wasn’t like Fred and George, she did not leave survivors. It was something she prided herself on, the manner in which she served as a silent but brutally swift harbinger of death. She respected them, of course. The war needed a range of people with a range of talents. They served different purposes, had been bred for different reasons. They were destructive and cruel, leaving the walking wounded who would rarely recover, chemicals seeping deep into the flesh of their victims. Explosive diameters that spread widely, a daring combination of elements that seemed to be held in precarious balance in the same way the two men were, twins that were each others mirror image, complimenting each other in the extreme, every detail relying on there being the two of them.

They had recently designed a poison that clung on to the skin, causing it to melt and decay. As of yet, there were no cures though she knew it was always just a matter of time. It could be avoided by adequate barrier spells, but those required magical dexterity and the knowledge of the need to erect them. She knew that the advantage of surprise that their newest creation had would fade, as all breakthroughs did as each side developed better toxins and the means to either defend or cure them, but she could still admire the creative sadism of it. It was not designed to kill, but rather cause long-term pain. A slow death if left utterly unattended, but nothing immediate, a method of spreading fear and disabling combatants. She preferred to kill outright, feelings greater confidence in leaving no survivors, but she could admit that leaving people alive did have benefits. The dead could feel no terror, could spread no fearsome rumours that demoralised the survivors. They couldn’t bring the threat of suffering to those who had been lucky enough to be far away from the attack. The dead, however, could never again stand on the battlefield. They were permanently removed from the eternal chess board of the delicate game of life and death. 

Luna was faintly reassured to think that it was unlikely that Ginny would be a victim of her traps. She didn’t like to think about Ginny much, didn’t want to remember the girl she had been friends with. They had grown up and chosen their roles. Luna knew that she should accept it, carve the other girl from her heart as was sensible, but a part of her didn’t want to. A part of her still held out a faint sense of hope that there would be a reconciliation at some point, that there was something she was missing. She knew she missed a lot, that she was not good with people. She had never been good with people. She had had little experience of them as a young child, kept away from the world by her father after her mother’s death. The only connection she had had beside him had been Ginny, moments stolen in the fields between their respective houses without her father knowing. They had remained friends at Hogwarts, even as Ginny wrapped herself in Snape’s dark shadow to follow in his footsteps, just as Luna felt little option but to continue placing one foot in front of the other as she stepped down the only path that was available to her, led as always by her father. 

She knew that allowing herself to care for anyone was ultimately futile, and that she continued to care for someone who was on the opposing side was worse than that. Luna had never minded Snape in the way that some had, but she had never minded anyone much. Other people were in many ways irrelevant. They would all die eventually. She knew that caring and loving others just led to heartbreak when they died. Her father had taught her that, a constant lesson that he had drilled into her with persistent relentlessness. She knew it to be true because she had witnessed it herself. She had seen her father’s devastation at her mother’s death, the way in which he had fallen apart. He still remembered her, still commented on the ways in which Luna was growing up to look just like her. He would highlight their similarities, gentle reminders drawing Luna back into the memories of her mother. He had always been absent-minded, mixing their names up so that Luna responded to her mother’s name as much as her own. In some ways, it had been Ginny that meant she never forgot what her name really was, so rarely was it the one her father used. 

Luna paused, breathing deeply through her carefully crafted mask, trying to focus on the darkness and her task rather than the vague memories of a happier time. A time when she had been a little girl, playing in green fields in amongst the wild flowers with Ginny. She knew now as an adult that those memories were nothing like as innocent as she had believed them to be. She had been happy, content to learn everything that her parents had taught her, listening enraptured to her father as he explained chemical compounds while stroking her, his warm voice wrapping itself around her like a lover’s embrace. She had played outside where it was safe, chasing the Weasley chickens and stroking their feathers, always with Ginny.

She had loved her father, just as she still loved him. She had little other choice, he was a part of her world, had crafted her so completely she wasn’t sure who she would be without his touch, without his fingerprints all over her body and soul. But she had also loved those brief moments away from him and the lab, where she didn’t have to worry about the risks of death any more than was usual for a young witch-to-be.

She knew now, looking back, that they had already been entangled in the ongoing war even as they had believed it to be just the background shadow of the world that captured their parents attention. Luna could still remember Ginny mentioning in secret how she wrote everything down in her diary, and now Luna knew that it was that diary that had allowed Voldemort to seduce her. A little girl unable to resist the allure of the charming man who they were supposed to fight against until their final breath. A little girl caught unawares by a birthday present that had more to it than initially met the eyes.

She twisted her gloves, the thin material reinforced with spells stitched into every seam to provide the highest protection she could create, digging her bracelet into the flesh of her wrist. It wasn’t enough to force the thoughts from her mind, for that she knew she really needed more pain, even though she had chosen the bracelet specifically for that purpose. The spikes were insufficient to create that sort of perfect pain. She breathed slowly, reciting the likely symptoms caused by her favourite nerve agents. It wasn’t the easiest method of bringing herself into the present, grounding herself and achieving pure focus, but she couldn’t cut easily while dressed for a mission. She couldn’t risk breaking the seal of her protective clothing to expose herself to low levels of her chemicals to aid her concentration either.

_Nausea_ , she thought, _respiratory collapse_ , as she tried and failed to block out the brief memories of Ginny laughing as the Weasley chickens surrounded her. Becoming attached merely risked suffering a loss, just as her father had lost her mother. She had lost her mother too, though her memories of her were faint, little more than the scent of burning chemicals and the gentle touch of slender fingers. It was less of a loss, the fishhooks in her heart had not been enough to tear it from her chest. Just enough to wound, but not enough to destroy. She knew her name, Pandora. She was familiar with it, almost more than her own name. Her father had always been forgetful, his mind far more on the chemicals that he handled than on real world issues. He liked to invent, always pushing the boundaries of possibility further. He had talked to her as if she was her mother, forgetting her real name in favour of her mother’s, passing on his love for his wife onto his daughter. So she had grown up answering as much to Pandora as she did to Luna. 

She knew that she was like her mother, in character as well as in appearance. She wondered if that frightened her father at the same time as making him love her more, deeper, more intensely as if she was a perfect replica of the woman he had lost. She knew that if she ultimately decided to do as her mother had done and take an option that would involve her own life being lost as she took out a whole swathe of enemies it would devastate him. That was a sacrifice too far for her father, though Luna still kept the option open, available in the back of her mind for any situation where there was no other reasonable choice. 

Her mother’s death has been a part of the intensive effort that had seen Voldemort and his Death Eaters kept firmly on the back foot for the years of her childhood. The revival had begun when she started Hogwarts, though a part of her wondered if that was really the case. It could just as well have been that she had simply been sheltered from it all, unaware of the battle eternally raging, and that it had been arriving at Hogwarts that opened her eyes to the fact that it wasn’t a distant concept of something that had happened, a war that had stolen her mother from her. It was a war that continued regardless of what her mother had done, the Death Eaters recovering as they recovered from everything the Order threw at them. Just as the Order too survived the worst of the Death Eater attacks.

Slightly calmer, not wanting to connect the catacombs of the Ministry to the catacombs under Hogwarts that had played such a pivotal role in changing her best friend into a Death Eater, she carefully fixed a discrete device to the side of the wall, where it would be barely perceivable. Undetected until it came live, detected movement and released the toxins within. She attached the sister device to the other side of the passageway, knowing that the two components would combine in the middle and ensure whoever was unlucky enough to have set them off would die where they stood. The fumes would spread further in the dank underground air, a slow, whispering death for anyone venturing near to that corner. 

For a moment she thought she heard a noise, deep in the darkness. She froze, her breathing almost fading to nothing to allow her to concentrate her senses fully on her surroundings, but she heard nothing more. She imagined that she was the only living creature there, wandering slowly but surely through the routes, the last person to use them and live to tell the tale. She shuddered slightly, a shiver running along her spine. Ginny had been trapped down in the catacombs that had been lost to humanity for so long that they had almost been forgotten, effectively buried in amongst the bones, destined to die forgotten and rotting away in the lonely darkness. She had emerged, still physically alive but changed. As if she had become a different person there, warped by the darkness of the underground, and the light had never managed to penetrate her again. As if she was still lost in the darkness, wandering aimlessly and lost through a maze with no exit, long since abandoning all hope of salvation. Luna didn’t want to think those thoughts, but they came to her anyway.

Luna didn’t want to be lost forever like that, to never return to the sunlight. She didn’t want to emerge from the catacombs as if she was a different person, her personality transplanted and altered, twisted into a new form. Again she thought she heard a sound, which made her pause again. Carefully, with the silent footsteps of the dead, she walked towards where the faintest of echoes had seemed to resonate from. She knew that she had to check that there was no enemy that might put her plan at risk, just as she knew that it was likely a rat or something that had wandered in and would likely die caught up in a variety of chemicals designed for humans. 

She thought, though she also thought that it must be her imagination, that she heard a voice, as if there was someone whispering. Carefully she creeped closer, wondering what she might find. She wondered if she should set some traps, the biggest ones she had on her, for just in case she had a need to detonate them. She switched the positioning of a few of the items she carried, so that if she needed to inspire a reaction she could do it quickly, though she had been hoping to survive her journey underground. Quietly, she made her way forward into the darkness towards the source of the faint sound. 

She clamped down on her reaction of shock at the shadowy figure almost impossible to make out in the gloom. Even her enhanced vision didn’t help her to see his face clearly, but she didn’t need to. Her mind filled with confusion, questions running over questions, choking and strangling each other so that none of them could be asked.

“Pandora,” a the figure said, “Pandora you’re safe. It’s dangerous here, my love.”

Luna relaxed, releasing her grip of her weapons, readjusting her bag so that it once more contained all that she carried.

“Pandora, you have to come with me,” he continued, “I have to get you away from this now. I have to protect you. I have to keep you safe.”

A cool hand grasped hers, and she felt herself drawn into a gentle hug that was careful to not jolt her bag of wares. She sighed deeply, resting her head against his chest.

“I have to finish my mission,” she said, her voice slightly muffled by the mask, just as his was by his. She was familiar with the muffled voices more than she was with them unmuffled, masks to protect the delicate eyes and nose vitally important for most of her waking hours. Sometimes she even slept in it, as if it really was a second skin. 

“No,” he insisted, “No, it has to be now. Trust me, Pandora. My darling I have to protect you.”

Luna sighed again, and considered the traps she had already set. It was nothing like the system she had planned, but it was something. She could return to finish what she had started. Reluctantly she nodded, knowing that even with the darkness around them he would know. She could feel the tension in his arms, and to refuse his plea seemed to her to be impossible.

She let him lead her through the passages, twisting and turning. She tried to keep up with the mental map she had, memorised in preparation for her mission, but she lost track of the intricacies of it. She was not used to being led but rather to being alone for these explorations. She hadn’t been led through the underground systems since she was a little girl, carried in her father’s arms.


	17. October 2018

_Delicate long fingers tangled in dark hair, drawing them together for a soft, languid kiss that promised new beginnings with a hint of eternity and was over far too soon. Warm breath mingling, becoming one as they almost wished they could be, before they drew back. Dark eyes full of mystery and allure met vibrant emerald green eyes_

No, Harry thought sharply, no, not green eyes. Green eyes felt wrong somehow, like looking into a mirror that showed too much of the truth, beyond what a normal muggle mirror might show. A mirror into the darkness hidden deep inside, a mirror that showed the demons inside his mind, eating away at his brain. Something about a magic mirror that showed desires and trapped mortals in the enchantment of longing for what they could never have, or a magic mirror that spoke truths the evil queen didn’t want to hear. He closed his eyes to the screen, not wanting to see the words he had written anymore but not wanting to delete them yet. Not quite ready to change everything, make the green eyes blue maybe. Change black hair to blonde, cut everything to pieces so it was distorted enough he could recognise nothing, knowing that it was futile as everything seemed to be a cacophony of ghosts that followed him singing an eternal dirge he knew all the words to.

He sighed quietly to himself, unable to restrain the desire to do so but still able to quiet it so no one noticed. Was it the darkening of the nights and the shortening of the days that were casting their shadows across his moods or had he merely blocked out all the preceding moments of depression as he suspected he so often did? Was it the superstition that had never really left, of how the spirits and the dead were closer to the surface on Hallowe’en? He hadn’t yet figured out what it meant for death or the aftermath now that the world had been stripped of magic. Was the world dying too, a slow dwindling death because it’s heart had been ripped out? Was it continuing without a soul? Were those alive forever parted from the dead or was the barrier just firmer? Or was everything the way it had always been, just no longer visible to Harry? Maybe he just needed new glasses, he thought bitterly to himself. 

Harry shifted, wriggling in the futile attempt to find a position that was almost comfortable, cursing the British train system in a manner that felt nostalgic but lacked any of the warming glow that nostalgia might have added. It felt more like a sense of bitter hatred, as if he was remembering all the reasons he'd left in the first place but at the same time he'd never really known muggle Britain, having left that as a child to the wonders of Hogwarts. He knew the muggle world beyond those isles just as he knew the small, isolated islands within it where he was pulled by bonds than could never be broken, the people holding him hostage for eternity. They would do so no matter where any of them were, even if he travelled away across the oceans again, even if he never returned. Even if they all died. 

There wasn't space for his legs and he knew he wasn't even that large compared to the population, no longer the scrawny skinniness of youth but still below average as he always had been in most ways except the most important way, because he had still been guided by prophecy and the quiet hissing of snakes to end a world and destroy a population that spanned the globe. He couldn't find a comfortable position to write in, his arms and elbows limited by the walls of the train and the person beside him, the train crowded and the seat uncomfortable, the tea mediocre at best but at least it was warm and caffeinated. The seat he'd managed to scrounge didn't even have a window for him to look out at the countryside, beautiful in its way but sad at the same time, maybe caused by the greyness of the weather or maybe due to the scars left by the baking heatwave that had seared it as it swept over, or maybe just his mood as if he both loved the lands but needed to leave, to escape again, to be free. As if he didn't want to be standing there as it collapsed, didn't want a repetition of the collapse of the wizarding world, didn't want to see another Hogwarts dissolve into nothingness destroying lives as it went. He wouldn't be the instigator but he could still be a helpless victim, he would survive whatever happened he knew but he also knew he didn't want to watch. 

If there'd still been magic maybe he could have sought out therapy with the knowledge that he could always simply obliviate anyone but now he was trapped and he was beginning to feel like he was limited, boxed in and locked away in a cage. He played with his ring, a snake winding its way around an overly large gem stone that he was certain was not actually a precious jewel. It had, after all, been a cheap ring, but if Taylor Swift could embrace snakes then Harry could too. There was no point in avoiding the imagery anymore, no use running away from the connection he had once had with them even if while he had had it he had fought it, believing it to be a tendril winding around him courtesy of Voldemort. A snake slowly suffocating its victim to death, when maybe it had been a poison in his veins from the beginning but not from Voldemort. Just another conversation that he needed to have but might never get round to, content to wallow in the vagueness of not really knowing just suspecting. Sometimes it was best to not know for certain. Sometimes ignorance really was bliss, though at the same time the ignorance that protected him could cut others deeper, letting them bear the burden as he turned away to protect himself. It was always balance, finding the extent to which he could survive. 

The lady next to him answered her phone for the third time in ten minutes, a conversation about sales that Harry had no interest in overhearing but which still drowned out the Akala album he was trying to listen to. Another man loudly declared that he was on the train, clearly directed down his own phone and Harry wondered whether humanity was really worth saving, a question he had agonised over for most of his adult life. He doubted it, but he also couldn't bear the idea of suffering any more, his thoughts returning to apocalyptic as they often did when he let them drift.

He daydreamed about taking Severus away, pulling him from his hermitage to travel the world. Not that Harry really was anymore social, just a more superficial variety, a lie of sociability hiding how little of himself he gave to any of the lives he had wandered into, as if his true being had always been elsewhere, separated from his body. Kept for safe keeping, guarded by Severus still, just as he had been at Hogwarts. A compromise to his desire to wander and never truly exist but also allowing him to hold his responsibility as sacred. He wanted to physically shake the thoughts away, to stand up and pace, but he stayed seated, trapped in by humanity and social graces. He opened a note on his old iPad, another feeble attempt at writing, typing words that meant nothing and gave him less.

_Sometimes, I’d tell people how when I was a rebellious teenager I sold my soul to the Devil. It was a lie, of course. I had done no such thing. But there was enough truth there that I could spin a good story, and it sounded more believable than the truth. The words were words people could recognise, a hint of the macabre combined with a ritual that seemed so inane in its way. Not everyone believes in souls, or even devils. But everyone knows how the Devil wants to buy people’s souls, in some cosmic trade._

_It’s a bit more complicated than that, really. I didn’t sell my soul to the Devil, I gave it to him. It was a gift, freely given. I suppose you could say I got nothing in return. Or maybe I did, it really depends what you view as valuable._

He sighed, giving up. He had no idea where it was heading, except that it was sailing too close to some kind of truth. It was hard to write anything profound on a train, cramped and uncomfortable. There were worse systems of public transport in the world, he knew that, just as there were worse countries, but there were also far better ones. Details that were easy for him to miss, having been abroad and now living away from most of society, never really paying attention to the world beyond the tiny scraps of his old one he had clung on to.

The train had been late, which was to be expected. Not late enough to count as late, but still late. Late by the standards of timekeeping. Late but trains always were, he had always known them to be late. Better late than cancelled. He felt nostalgic for trains that ran on time, reliable and reassuring. He fiddled through his documents, opening one that he couldn’t remember, making yet another mental note to name them though he knew he never would. He never did and so he always had these untitled, mysterious documents lying about much as he often had scraps of paper lying about to remind him to do things, bits of paper he would then lose. None of it really mattered. He put the iPad down, knowing it wouldn’t be for long before he fidgeted and tried to find something else on that or his phone to entertain him, to while away the hours, the clock ticking down.

It was an expensive ticket, for the pleasure of spending hours in discomfort. There was little other option available to him. The seat was uncomfortable and small, no leg room to speak of. He had wanted to write, hoping for a moment of inspiration, but he had forgotten how impossible it was to do anything much on a train. For a moment he wondered if he should abandon his seat and search out a section of floor in the sections between the carriages in the hope that that might actually be more comfortable, but he didn’t want to lose his seat. He doubted it would actually be an improvement, and if it turned out to be then that would be a fairly damning assessment of the train. The sort of truth it was probably best not to know. 

He flicked open another note on his iPad, tempted to use an actual notebook but aware that that would be even more annoying with the limited space. Nothing he ever wrote in notebooks ever made it to his computer anyway, and he was now quite used to typing. He had liked the distance it gave him from the magical world where he had used old-fashioned quills dipped in ink, though now time had created enough distance that it no longer mattered. Maybe he should have brought his laptop, but there’d be no real space for that on a train and it seemed futile in a way. And yet there were plenty of people who brought their laptops, managed to make space to do work on trains, but they were adults who worked and Harry didn’t think he was really an adult yet even though he knew he was. He’d been an adult and a soldier, a leader in a glorious war to end all wars, but still he could see nothing of himself in the people editing their spreadsheets as they headed to meetings. Sometimes everything seemed futile and he wondered why he was still alive. It wasn’t necessarily because he wanted to be, though sometimes he did. 

For a while he stared at the blank document, wondering what to write. There were ideas temping all in his head but none of them felt quite right. He didn’t want to write them where someone else could read them, even if no one else was interested in reading over his shoulder. Even if no one else cared about his pathetic attempts at stringing sentences together, word tacked on after word to create something that meant nothing. It still felt too personal to be doing in public where other people could see, even if they never did see, it still felt as thought they could all read his thoughts. As if the woman next to him would, at any moment, stop writing her emails to her clients and give some kind of mocking criticism of his fiction. Or maybe his emotions. He could see so clearly what she was doing, could hear the fragments of her phone conversations, even though he had no interest in them. So surely she too could easily glance over and read every word he was pouring out, even if she cared as little as he did about her. 

His phone buzzed, disturbing his thoughts and he checked it to find not a message from a real friend, but something even better than that. A chat room opening in Mystic Messenger, allowing him to block out the rest of the world in favour of the problems of the RFA and the ominous shadow of Mint Eye. He liked the sensation of being wanted and loved, of every action having a consequence even if they were some times catastrophic. It killed time and made him smile a bit, curled up in himself as the country passed by even if he wasn’t able to see it. The kind of fantasy that was easier to indulge in on a train compared to those of his own creation. 

By the time he arrived in Euston he was hot and annoyed, reminded so clearly of why he had left in the first place though it had had nothing to do with the train or the weather, not even really anything to do with Britain. He always forgot how much hotter it was in London, just as he always forgot how much he hated London until he stepped off the train onto the platform. A part of him was glad that it was Euston not King’s Cross he was transiting through, but really it made no difference. A part of him wondered if King’s Cross still had the luggage trolley built as though it was stuck half-way through a wall, labelled as Platform 9 3/4, surrounded by tourists taking pictures as Harry Potter himself walked past them. A part of him didn’t care, was too busy hating the entire country and everyone in it.

He wound his way through the crowded station to the tube, which was just as crowded, navigating his way to the cramped interior of the carriages, grateful that it wasn’t the summer when it had been even hotter but still sweating. The air was still and sticky, unpleasant and lacking in anything like air conditioning which it so desperately needed. He knew that some lines, the newer ones, were air conditioned, but not the ones he needed to use, so he suffered in silence along with the rest of the hordes of people. 

He wrestled his jumper off, glad that he was wearing a T-shirt underneath, one he had bought years ago when he saw Bob Dylan live while he was still living in Japan. He should do more things, go out and see concerts. He should live while he was still alive, just like he had been doing until he returned to the place that was a grave even if none of them were physically dead. Just in all the ways that mattered, but he was starting to wonder if they hadn’t found their resurrections, reincarnations into new lives while he was still searching for his rebirth. A ghost returned to haunt his loved ones. He knew the jumper and the jacket would go back on once he stepped outside, the knowledge making him as angry as the stifling air of stale sweat made him miserably hot. 

He greeted Dudley with a hug like usual, glad to see his cousin and glad to no longer be on the tube. He had forgotten how much he hated it. It brought out the worst in him, that parts that hated all of humanity. The part that had given up on anything and everything. He was glad to be in Dudley’s flat, familiar mostly through the confronting presence of the cousin he had known his whole life, the closest thing to a brother he still had now that he no longer had the Weasleys, who had themselves replaced Dudley themselves. Red-haired shades that surrounded him before vanishing into nothingness, leaving him bereft to return to the family he’d left behind. He dumped his hardy rucksack on the floor, resting it against the wall as he abandoned it, walking into Dudley’s small living room. 

“How was the journey?” Dudley asked, though he already had an idea of the answer.

“Over,” Harry said with a shrug as Dudley brought through two cups of tea. It was just the two of them, Jess away for a few days. Harry took his mug gladly as Dudley took a seat on the sofa with him, smiling at the magikarp on his mug, a present bought long ago by Harry from a Pokemon Centre. For a while there was a stillness, a quiet contemplation and a moment of peace even though the city beyond the thin walls continued to heave with life, noisy and eternal.

“How’s things?” he asked, as if they didn’t talk most days through WhatsApp. It was different talking face to face than it was any other way. In some way better but in some others it was harder, as if it was more stripped of all the other defences that would exist with the distance and the barriers of the screens to part them.

Dudley shrugged, “Usual,” he replied. There was a moment of quiet again, comfortable and familiar.

“How’s Marge?” Harry asked.

“Deaf but still being obstinate and refusing to even consider hearing aids,” Dudley replied with an eye roll, “Though aside from that fine. Make sure you see her before you leave” Dudley gave Harry a pointed look.

“I will,” he protested, “I’m going to see her tomorrow. I’m here to see her as much as I’m here to see you…”

Harry stopped, rethinking. He looked at nothing in particular for a moment, in a living room decorated sparsely and erratically. Nothing special, nothing to suggest anything beyond the normal had ever graced it. Which in many ways was perfectly correct, Dudley had always been normal and separate from the magical world, just like his parents. Only connected by the faint thread of Lily that bound Harry to them and had drawn them into it, though they could never truly enter it. More that they knew, were aware, even if for the most part they were blissfully unaware.

“When are you leaving?” Dudley asked, and Harry knew he wasn’t talking about the brief visit. 

“I don’t know,” Harry answered slowly, “I didn’t really think about leaving. I wasn’t planning to, but I wasn’t planning anything. I stopped planning.”

“Well,” Dudley said with a shrug, “Just know that it’s ok if you do leave. It doesn’t change anything. Sometimes I wonder about it myself, just leaving and never coming back. Finding a new life somewhere else. Surely there must be something, somewhere, better than this? Though I know there are worse places too. Maybe it’s just that the grass is always greener on the other side. Maybe it’s just that it feels like every time I read the paper or watch the news it’s as if the whole world is going to Hell in a handcart.”

“It seems tattier,” Harry said, “Just, more worn and tired than I remember.” He didn’t really want to clarify his statement, didn’t want to linger too long on it. That was a part of the advantage of being so secluded away in amongst the Lakes, they never saw anyone or went anywhere much. The world passed them by, it mattered nothing to them if budgets were cut to the point that councils could barely function, as they were barely present in the world. As if Ginny had somehow managed to cast a charm around the boundaries of her property to leave them untouched and unaffected, the place a shining utopia to coddle them and keep them safe from reality. Harry noticed it when he visited the others, when he left the cosy four walls that weren’t a prison but a home even if nowhere could really be home. He felt again as if he was haunted by decay, a subtle decay hidden away behind walls that were being built across the world, borders and hearts hardening. As if it could be his fault, as if anything could be laid at his feet, apportioning of the blame always finding him guilty even though he knew it was just the result of a guilty conscience.

“Go to Europe while we still can with relative ease,” Dudley murmured, disinterested and resigned, all other feelings burnt away.

“Rebuild again and again,” Harry sighed, not really sure what he was thinking about. 

He looked again around the room. It smelt pleasant, not because of anything innate but because he imagined Dudley still tended to burn herbs and incense, essential oils and candles. Hopefully gestures to ward away evil that had become ingrained. Rosemary and salt lingering in the air to purify and cleanse.

“Maybe we should watch a horror film?” Dudley suggested, “I can be terrified witless and you can correct all the inaccuracies. It is the season, after all.” It was something they had done before. Dudley was still reliably frightened by pretty much anything and Harry had long since realised there was nothing as scary as reality. Nothing that people could dream up could ever compare to what people really did to each other, no shadows could hold a candle to memories blotted with uneven tip-ex that hid what lay beneath it but made the erasure as obvious as the desire to hide what lay beneath.

“Not sure if I’m in the mood for that,” Harry admitted. He didn’t want to think about the dead, about magic and everything that lurked in the dark, even if they were all gone. Buried. Cremated.

“What are you in the mood for?” Dudley asked, not minding what they did. 

“I think a part of me just wants to drink kurokiri and cry,” Harry admitted. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but sometimes he had those moments when something like that felt like the best possible option even if it wasn’t really much of an option. 

“I don’t think I’ve got that, but I do have some other drinks. Or we could go to the Tesco local, stock up on tissues too if that’s what we’re doing tonight…” Dudley shrugged with a slight smile. Comforting, calm and happy as always to follow Harry’s lead just as he always had done when they were children, even though Harry had always been younger so it should really have been the other way round. Following him until Harry had left, gone away where Dudley could never follow, returning changed only to leave again in search of something that was beyond his reach.

Harry snorted, shaking his head and smiling back. “Maybe we should dress up?” he suggested on a whim. He wondered, abstractly, if there would be people dressing up as him to go to Hallowe’en parties, wearing faces that were shadows of the faces he had known. Imagined illusions drawn from fantasy and given a new lease of life, ghosts risen from their graves.

Dudley shrugged again, an amused smile spreading across his face. “Sure,” he said, “Why not? Let’s be someone else.”


End file.
